


Love, Guaranteed

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Lawyer Mickey, Love Guarenteeed, M/M, Multi, Netflix film AU, Sappy AU, just fluff, no surprises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26340967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: After 1000 first dates, Ian is still single. So is Mickey, the lawyer he hires to sue his dating app. All evidence points to romance.
Relationships: Caleb/Ian Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Kev Ball/Veronica Fisher/Svetlana Milkovich
Comments: 91
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey stood in the courtroom, before the jury returned. He could feel the tension in the air, the judge’s scrutiny of him. He’d rehearsed his speech a million times, planned and practiced. 

He knew he was on the right side of the law, for once, that his client was the good guy. Now all Mickey had to do was convince the jury that Jerome’s being hit by the CTA bus wasn’t a result of any nefarious plan or scheme, just simple negligence on the part of the bus driver. Jerome had been in the crosswalk, for fuck’s sake. With the Walk sign illuminated. 

As the jury filed back in from their lunch break, Mickey took the opportunity to straighten the tie Mandy insisted he wear to court, press his hands to the pleats the dry cleaning company put in his slacks, and then waited for his turn to speak, anxiously twirling a pen in his gloved fingers until Jerome gave him a  _ look _ . The old man usually looked unassuming and kindly, but he had a look that could cut glass. Luckily the jury didn’t seem to notice. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client demands that the scales of justice be tipped in his favor. These were supposed to be Jerome Johnson’s golden years. A widower, starting to date again, crossing items off his bucket list.”

(Iggy had explained to Mickey and Mandy about bucket lists. Mickey immediately began writing one in his head, but Mandy’s blew his out of the water. “I wanna skydive! Swim with dolphins!”)

“Like zipping around town on one of those hip electric scooters. What was not on his list was a broken hip. From being hit by a bus on Lake Street. The Chicago Transit Authority thwarts victims from pursuing damages by overwhelming them with confusing, endless, bureaucratic red tape. They count on justice to turn a blind eye. But it is time to rip off the blindfold and let justice see.”

Mickey peeked around, getting a slight nod from the security guard. 

_ Cool, ok. Had ‘em right where he fuckin wanted. _

\--

He was right, of course. How could the jury not side with kindly, grandfatherly Jerome? Maybe if it had been a more notorious carouser, a town drunk who’d been in the court more times than could be counted, on both sides of the table, plaintiff and defendant, like Frank Gallagher, it would have been different. But Jerome was a staple in the community, a retired teacher who probably had some of the jury’s parents in history class, back in the day. 

It was a slam dunk, but Mickey still appreciated the win. Maybe it would garner him a few more clients, help him keep the lights on for one more week. He yanked on his van’s door handle, having to pull mightily to get the thing to finally open, which it did with a complaining creak. 

_ Didn’t matter. A win, that’s what mattered. One for the good guys.  _

The good guys, he’d found, were few and far between in the Southside. He knew, growing up there, that his family wasn’t exactly on the side of the angels, but after his stints in juvie and then big-boy jail, and being freed via the Innocence Project, his natural curiosity about the law, combined with his big fuckin’ mouth and ability to convice people of almost anything, led to him slowly but surely getting his GED, then his Bachelor’s, and finally, an online law degree. He wasn’t the best in the city, but he had his own (tiny) firm, an office with a desk, and even a goldfish. 

When he turned the key in the ignition, the van’s engine roared to life, and the tape deck spun, blasting the same song, “Love is a Battlefield.” Man, he loved that one. The ride home was shitty, traffic even at two in the afternoon, but nothing could dim his mood, not even seeing Svet and her girlfriend practically making out in the big bay window. His place was part of a duplex: Svet, Kev, Vee, Yev, and the twins all lived next door. It was weird, but it worked for them. Mickey could still be in his son’s ( _ or his brother’s, he was never sure _ ) life, and have privacy from the swirling chaos of the thruple next door. Svet was pregnant again, and Kev and Vee were treating her like a queen, pampering the shit out of her nonstop, since she was due any day now. 

He thought about going over, telling them about the positive outcome of his case, but decided to just go into his own door, eat some leftover takeout, have a few beers, and call it a night. Same thing he did every day. It worked for him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey meets a new client.

Every morning, Mickey started his day the same way, coffee and a muffin from the food truck a block up from his office. He would walk from his house to the office in every weather (cause the van was a temperamental bitch), listening to music on his earbuds, grab his breakfast, and think about his day as he walked. 

His habit of tipping generously probably helped too, since the lady who ran the cart had his order down: he ordered the same ridiculous thing every day. Even better, meant he didn’t have to say anything to anyone until he got to work.  _ Large  _ (not fucking grande or whatever), large mocha latte,  _ yes  _ to the whipped cream,  _ yes  _ to the chocolate drizzle. Egg sandwich, lettuce, tomato, mayo, steak, cheese, no avocado ( _ costs extra, no need to be profligate _ .) 

While the food truck’s operator slammed together his sandwich he did the same thing, every day. He stood by the extra cream and sugar, surreptitiously adding another heaping teaspoon of sugar to his drink. It was so automatic that he didn’t even look around as he blocked the entire coffee customization window, so when he turned suddenly, he basically body-checked a tall red-headed man who’d been trying to get around him.

“Hey, sorry.” Mickey’s apology sounded insincere even to his own ears, and he didn’t give the guy a second glance, just marched down the street on his way.

The back of his neck prickled, so he pulled out his earbuds. Tall n Red was still on his heels. 

“The fuck you doin? You stalkin me?”

“What? No! I just- did you know that mocha’s originated in Yemen, not Italy?”

Mickey frowned at the man as they kept pace. “No, but thanks.” He tipped his cup, turning into the entryway to the building that housed his office. “This is my stop.”

“Me too.” The redhead gave him a smile that was too broad, too toothy, too  _ happy  _ for nine am.

In the lobby, Iggy and Mandy were waiting for him.

“Mickey!” Iggy grinned, happy to see him.

“Mornin’ Mickey!” Mandy, however, just rolled her eyes as she greeted him.

Hiring his siblings as his office manager and paralegal had been a cost-cutting measure, and most days it wasn’t the worst to have them around all day.

“Could you guys chill? I’m not late, am I?”

“No but you have a-” Mandy’s comment was cut off by the door swinging open behind Mickey. 

_ Damn it, he hadn’t even taken his coat off and someone was coming to collect already? _

“I’m your nine o’clock.” That voice- Mickey gritted his teeth. It was the guy who’d followed him from the coffee truck. But he composed his face before he turned to greet him.

“Good morning, just give me a moment to get settled and I’ll be right with you.” He stomped into his office, every movement and aspect of his body language belying the professional words.

Behind the door, he took a deep breath, shucked off his coat, and set down the coffee carefully, promising to get to it soon. He quickly swept some stray files into a drawer before opening the door and gesturing his potential client in. 

The man walked in like he owned the office, sitting on the edge of the wooden chair Mickey had in place for clients. 

_ Ok, he knew the chair was a little rickety, but the guy didn’t have to perch like it was gonna fall apart under his ass. _

Without preamble, the man laid out his case. “I want to sue Love Guaranteed.”

Mickey stared in confusion. He thought he knew what Love Guaranteed was, some dating app people used. But why sue them?

“The dating website?”

“Yes,” the man agreed. He really was very handsome, even Mickey could admit.  _ Why would he even need a dating site? _

“If you were assaulted as a result of a match, then you certainly-”

The client waved a hand, clearly trying to silence Mickey, who bit his tongue.

  
  


“Mr- ?” Mickey waited for the man to introduce himself. 

“Gallagher. Ian Gallagher.”

“Ok, Mr. Gallagher, I don’t take on these types of cases, but I can refer you to a colleague-” he could see Mandy and Iggy making throat-cutting gestures through the window in his office door, holding up overdue notices and bills with red print on top. 

“I’m not an ambulance chaser, and I don’t think you are either. You have a reputation as one of the classiest bus bench lawyers in town.” The guy was trying to flatter him, Mickey knew. Didn’t hurt to hear, though.

“Never done a bus bench ad. What are you trying to sue Love Guaranteed for, anyway? Stalking? Threatened? Harmed?”

“Worse. I’m a victim of fraud.” Mickey would have laughed in the guy’s face, but he actually looked serious as he explained. “Love Guaranteed is robbing people of $29.95 a month with their slogan ‘You’ll find love, guaranteed.’ I’ve been on 995 different dates, and not one of them has provided me love.”

Mickey knew this type, the kind of person who read all the fine print on any ad, looking for a loophole, wanting to pull a  _ gotcha  _ lawsuit. They were nearly always totally stonewalled by a cadre of lawyers whose only job was to stop these sorts of nonsense suits. But the facts of the case were startling.

“Nine hundred and ninety five dates with … actual human women?”

“Well, no.” The guy wasn’t meeting his eyes, suddenly. “Actual human men.”

“Jesus. Are there even nine hundred and ninety five gay men in Chicago?”

Seemingly relieved and encouraged that Mickey hadn’t rejected the suit out of hand simply because Gallagher was gay, he went on. “Yes, the user agreement fine print states that a subscribed must go on one thousand different dates to apply for the guaranteed to apply. Their lawyers clearly thought no one would go through with it but,” he stretched out his arms in emphasis, “I did!”

He laughed, and Mickey wanted to kick him. His laugh was charming but condescending, like he thought he was hot shit. Mickey didn’t kick him, but he did set his mouth, wishing for a sip of his mocha.

“Well, home stretch, anyway. I have five left to go.”

“Yeah, I’m just um…” Speechless. Mickey was speechless, for once in a life where his mouth had gotten him into and out of trouble more times than he could count or recall. “Still a little in the weeds on this whole nine hundred and ninety five dates thing. Uh, how was that even possible?” The logistics alone were mind boggling. Chatting up that many men, scheduling dates,  _ paying  _ for all those dates. Mickey shuddered.

“It’s a great question. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates. For pretty much every day for the last year. That’s how I did it. Guy’s gotta eat, right?”

“Ok, yeah, I guess.” Mickey was nodding, but his brain was not in the room.  _ What had the dating site been thinking, to write that guarantee? Had anyone else tried to cash in on it? This guy clearly had some cash, that was a lot of dates, so maybe it wasn’t just about a quick payday? _

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe no man wants to hear,” Mickey made air quotes, “‘A man’s gotta eat, right?’”

“I’m not, like, saying it at the date. I’m not a jerk. I’m just thinking it, in my head. Look, the point is, I have a case. Ok? A winnable case.”

“I mighta been born at night but it wasn’t last night, ok? I know what this is. It’s a classic loophole lawsuit. I’m not down for that.”

Mandy and Iggy shoved the red-ink bills on the door glass again, where Gallagher couldn’t see.

“Think what you want, but Love Guaranteed is profiting off of the lonely souls of the world. It is not right. It is a reckless endangerment of the human heart.”

Mickey grabbed a pen and scribbled that down, ‘ _ reckless endangerment of the human heart _ .’ That shit was good.

“The human heart? That’s the body part you’re worried about?” The insult came out before Mickey had a chance to think, and he stared in horror as the redhead blinked twice, before letting out a whooping laugh.

“Nah, man, you’ve got me all wrong. I’m not about getting laid, I’m seriously looking for love. Sex- sex just complicates things too much. Muddies the waters. Anyway, how much for a retainer?” He reached into his jacket pocket, looking for all the world like he was ready to write Mickey a check on the spot, despite the embarrassing faux pas. 

The Mickey of a decade ago wouldn’t have thought twice about that type of mild insult, but the Mickey of the present wanted to keep his business open, so he tried hard not to piss off the people who wanted to pay him, as a general rule.

“This- this might be hard to prove. We’d need affidavits from your dates, proof you went on the thousand.”

“No problem,” Gallagher said. “I kept detailed notes and a file on each guy.”

Mickey’s eyebrows drew together in consternation. “I’ll need to review the merits of your case.”

“Not a problem. But don’t take too long. I think your employees out there, the ones with the matching finger tats? They seem to be worried about keeping the lights on in here.”

He dropped a check on Mickey’s desk and sauntered out, leaving Mickey, Mandy, and even Iggy gaping. Mickey cursed himself for forgetting to put his gloves on, for not drinking his coffee before it got cold, and worst of all, for having a stupid-ass fantasy about tall ginger men.


	3. Chapter 3

At home, Mickey had gotten waylaid by Svetlana at the door, dragging him into the house where Vee was wrangling the kids up to bed and Kev was out somewhere. 

“Hey Svet, you look- uh, healthy.” Mickey was doing the thing where he tried not to be an asshole to people who had helped him, but it was a stretch with Svetlana.

“Am pregnant, and fat, with hemorrhoids,” she replied levely.

“Yeah, but you’re the good kinda fat. Like a sheep.”

_ A sheep? _

Jesus christ, he was a moron. Svetlana stared at him. Trying to avoid her scrutiny, he pulled out his phone. He’d been planning to do some research on Gallagher, so when he unlocked the phone, the  _ Love, Guaranteed  _ app was still open.

Vee draped a friendly arm over his shoulder and peered down at his screen. “Mickey, a dating app? Fucking finally! I have the best guy to set you up with!”

“It’s for a case,” he protested, voice squeaking slightly.

She squinted and looked at the app, where Gallagher’s profile and picture were obviously displayed. “Wow, you are so taking this case.”

“No, he’s the client.”

“A hot client?” Vee grinned, squeezing his shoulder a little too hard.

“Gross client. Dude’s been with more men than Russel Brand.”

“Ok, hot gross client. We can work with that.” She dropped Svetlana a wink, and got a soft smile in return. Mickey had seen that little smile before, never directed at him, obviously.

“Obnoxious, gross, hot only to a certain desperate kind of guy who is  _ not  _ me. Still prospective client. Haven’t even deposited his check yet.”

Before Vee could come up with a response, Kev came in the front door, arms full of plastic grocery bags. 

“Hey, wives! Who wants Ben and Jerry’s?”

Both Svetlana and Vee perked up at that, sidling over to give him matching kisses on each cheek. It was the kind of cozy domesticity that Mickey had given up hope of finding for himself. Kev reluctantly extricated himself from his wives and went into the kitchen in search of bowls and spoons.

“Dude is so pussy whipped.”

“Husband is not pussy whipped. Husband is performing husbandly duties owed to brilliant beautiful wives.”

“And you know how we all met, Mickey,” Vee piped in.

“Yes, I know. Online dating. But you wouldn’t be together now if not for me!”

Vee shrugged. 

“But this dude’s been on almost a thousand dates! Even you have to admit that’s excessive. Obsessive.”

“So what’s wrong with him?” Vee was looking at the profile more carefully.

“Dunno yet. Aside from being a classic loophole shark, exploiting a company over a tiny detail in the fine print.”

Svet looked like she was considering how to apply this new knowledge in her own life, so Mickey quickly added, “and 90% of loophole cases get thrown out of court, no questions asked.”

“Only 90%?”

“I know I’m focused on helping people who really need it, but this guy is ridiculous. Shameless.”

“Yeah, but honey, shameless pays a lot of bills, which I know you have.” Vee liked to try and mother Mickey a little, and sometimes he let her. 

“It would mean that Mandy and Iggy could stop working for Doordash and Uber on the weekends,” Mickey mused. He did honestly feel bad not being able to consistently pay his siblings a living wage. 

On the porch between the two entrances, Mickey pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he was looking for. Against his better judgement, he hit the green button.

“Hello?” The voice sounded raspy, sleepy.

“Mr. Gallagher, hi. It’s Mickey Milkovich. Uh… we can start tomorrow.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Mickey pulled up to work the next morning and slammed the door of the van shut, the door handle came off in his hand. Unperturbed, he tucked it into his coat pocket, and carried on into the building. 

He had a whole plan of attack for the case, and as he briefed Mandy and Iggy, they kept giving each other weird nudges. 

“Ok team, our first step is to take a deep dive into the strange dating life of Mr. Ian Clayton Gallagher. It’s not gonna be easy either. Love Guaranteed is owned by Tamara Taylor.”

“The lifestyle blogger who tells women to steam their hoo-has?” 

Iggy squirmed, and Mickey nearly spit out the sip of coffee he’d taken.

“Jesus, Mandy, it’s not even nine am.”

“Just sayin, I know who she is!”

“Great, good job, gold fuckin’ star,” he snarked. “Anyway, she’s Fortune 500-level loaded, lawyered up to her tits, so our shit has to be on point. It’s gonna be a challenge but I’m so ready for this, something more than more divorces and car accidents.”

His siblings exchanged another of those loaded glances.

“Look, what the fuck is up with you two dingbats this morning?”

Mandy spoke. “You’re like one of those sharks that’s been captured, and kept in a cage- you need some meat to attack. This lady’s your perfect prey.”

She wasn’t wrong, Mickey mused. “Just another corporate fat cat, with her $300 haircut and a fancy ass watch. She’s not even gonna know what hits her!”

“Yes, Mickey, we stan a fierce lawyer for the people.” He stared at his sister, not quite willing to ask for an explanation. “Luckily, we are _so_ on the same page with you today! We even signed you up for the Love, Guaranteed app, so we could get the full picture of the client.”

He narrowed his eyes at his sister, sensing a lie under the nominally helpful words. 

“And?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” This was Iggy, refusing to meet his eyes. “We signed you up for the app, and used a picture and all…”

Mickey waited, unsure where this was going but positive he wasn’t going to like it. “I don’t have time for dating right now.”

“No, no, of course not,” Iggy quickly agreed. 

“Except you can’t win a case you know nothing about,” Mandy put in.

Mickey had obviously realized he would need to do a little background reading for the case, but he had intended to do it all virtually. Online articles, databases, and maybe a few youtube videos for color. Mandy and Iggy seemed to have other plans.

“Think of it as _research_. It could really make the difference between winning and losing this case.” 

Mickey knew Iggy was trying to play on his pride, on his competitive nature. Problem was, it was working a little bit.

“You two made me an online dating profile? What’d it even say? ‘ _I work with my siblings, live next to my ex, and drive the world’s shittiest van?_ ’”

“Of course not! We talked about how you’re passionate, fit, kind to animals-” Mandy gave the office goldfish a significant glance, reminding Mickey that he hadn’t fed the thing yet today. “-hard working, all the good shit.” 

Mickey set his lips in a thin line, trying to express his disapproval, but saw their guilty faces and knew there was more.

“What else?”

“Well, it turns out you’re kinda like catnip for gay men in Chicago.”

_Huh?_

“You had like, fifty messages this morning.”

“Sixty five, just now.” Iggy added.

Mickey was stunned, his mouth open wide as he leaned on the wall with one hand for support. “Sixty five messages? Are there even sixty five gay men in Chicago?”

“Oh, sweetie,” Mandy practically cooed. “There’s at least a thousand, remember? Ian went on dates with over 900 of them.”

“Hey, what if some of the guys who messaged _you_ already went on dates with _him_?”

Mickey stared at his brother in horror. “Fuck, no!”

“Don’t worry about that, don’t worry about that. We’ll cross reference them, just to be sure.”

“S’not like I’m actually meeting any of them.” Mickey crossed his arms, trying to increase his feeling of self-protection from his well-intentioned but dubiously-wise siblings.

“About that… you kinda are.”

He closed his eyes, just waiting for the next blow to fall.

“It’s just a quick lunch date today around the corner, and he seems really nice. Likes cats, working out, and running.”

“Fuck, yeah, we’re gonna have _so_ much in common. Sounds like a pretentious douchebag.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get out of the date: it really was the best way to conduct research and gain the hands-on experience he’d need to win the case. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ok, do you actually have a heart in there, Tin Man? Or just an empty space where you keep your car keys and some expired condoms?”

Ian Gallagher was in his office when Mickey got back from lunch. They were meeting for him to hand over the numerous files he’d compiled on each of his dates.

“It’s both helpful and totally creepy that you meticulously documented all your dates.”

In his head, Mickey knew that having the evidence was good, but the judge and jury could see this as Gallagher’s intention for the gotcha lawsuit. Like he hadn’t even wanted any of the dates to work out, was only looking for a payout.

Gallagher didn’t even squirm at being called creepy, just inspected his immaculately trimmed nails, saying, “Thank you.”

It hadn’t been a compliment. 

“Figured I’d need a paper trail.”

This guy had to stop saying shit like that: it could definitely sink his case. Mickey flipped through pages at random, pulling a thin file out and reading. 

“The one who talked about cats,” Mickey read aloud.

“Yeah, didn’t even  _ own  _ a cat.” Gallagher explained.

Mickey turned to the next page. “The one who brought his parents on the date?”

“Yep. He never said a word but his dad was awesome. I mean, we talked about baseball for hours, it was great. Wish I woulda gotten his number.” Gallagher gave a little laugh and Mickey realized with dawning horror that he might be serious. 

“You wanted to hook up with the guy’s dad?”  _ Gross. Eww. Fucking no way.  _

“Not hook up with, but hang out. I need friends, too.”

Internally, Mickey rolled his eyes, wondering how Gallagher could possibly expect to make friends when he was such a… douchebag. He kept reading.

“The one who needed a date to his sister’s wedding.”

“Two tickets to Hawaii seemed kinda extra for date numero dos.”

Mickey didn’t comment. 

“The one who got drunk and tried to fight the busboy.”

“He said I’d been, uh, checking the busboy out. And for record, I took the punch.”

“Were you actually checking out the busboy?”

Gallagher met his eye steadily. “Probably.”

“Ok, man, you cannot name your dates based on episodes of a shitty 90’s TV series.”

“It’s the only way to keep track of them! Do you know how many Jake’s I’ve dated? Fourteen! Plus twelve Joe’s and half a dozen Chris’s.”

“Ok, a little accountability, please. You didn’t have to date these guys. It’s your choice to go on all these dates, so maybe don’t fuckin’ dehumanize the guys?”

The green eyes stared at him, and Mickey gulped, realizing what he’d said. It was one thing to curse at a stranger on the street, but he tried really fuckin hard not to curse at his clients.

Gallagher folded, resting his elbows on his knees, as he sat on the couch in Mickey’s office. The same couch Mickey had crashed on more times than he could count, when late nights turned into early mornings.

“Look, Mick, this lawsuit isn’t just about me, you know.”

_ When had Gallagher decided they were on a first name basis with each other? _

The seated man continued. “Love Guaranteed takes advantage of everyone who uses the app.”

“So what are you gonna do if we win? You’re gonna split the damages with a thousand different dudes?”

“Of course not. I have plans for that money.”

“Bet you do.” The snark came out again, another thing Mickey tried to keep in check around clients.

Gallagher eyed him, catching the judgement. “And just so you know, I was always a perfect gentleman to them. I took these guys on classy dates.”

“What, you split the check at Sizzler?”

“No disrespect to the Steak N Wings with Ribs, but give a guy some credit, ok? It was breakfast at Eggy’s, lunch at Steingold’s, and dinner at Boka.”

  
“Boka? That the place with the fancy hot chocolate after dinner?”

“Yep. And I paid, every time.”

“Ok, color me impressed. A little. More with your time management than the rest of it, though.”

“Yeah? Got most dates down to under an hour. Quicker than an oil change.”

The inner eye roll this time was harder to suppress. 

“Ok, do you actually have a heart in there, Tin Man? Or just an empty space where you keep your car keys and some expired condoms?”

Gallagher felt his ( _ ok, impressively muscled _ ) left pectoral muscle, “Nah, it’s empty.” They were interrupted when his phone pinged.

“Gotta go.”

“What, a hot date?”

“Yup.”

“Wait, really? That was a joke, it’s 10 am.”

“What did you think I meant by breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates? This is breakfast. Number 996.” Gallagher stood, opened the office door, and walked out, leaving Mickey, jaw ready to drop. 

He looked down at the pile of files. “You poor saps didn’t know what hitcha, did you?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She seems to think you’ll stop being such a grumpy asshole if you get-

As Ian left the building, Mickey strolled out, catching both of his employees staring after the man. 

“I’d like to know how he does it,” Iggy said, almost wistfully.

“I don’t care how he does it, only if he’ll do it to me,” Mandy giggled. Iggy gave her fist-bump of acknowledgement.

“He’s an opportunist,” Mickey remarked from behind his two wayward siblings. “I’m fuckin embarrassed to take the case.” He went back to his office, but returned after a moment, carrying one of the heavy boxes Gallagher had brought him.

“The fuck is that?” Iggy crooked one finger nervously at the box, as if it potentially hid an alligator. Iggy was preternaturally terrified of alligators.

“Files. From Ian’s dates.” Mickey’s voice was smug, and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “In order for this case to fly, all of them have to be corroborated. So good luck with that.” He tapped the top of the box and turned towards his office, when an obnoxious computer chime echoed.

Both Iggy and Mandy rushed to the computer.

“What’s going on,” Mickey asked the space where’d previously stood, confused and a little concerned.

“You got a new message on Love, Guaranteed!” 

_ Ugh _ . He’d forgotten the profile his siblings had created was live. Just the thought that there were men out in the city looking at pictures of him, thinking about him… Mickey shuddered, trying to shake off the chill that had run down his neck.

He stepped up behind Iggy, who sat at his computer. 

“Wait,  _ that’s  _ the picture you used? That’s from my birthday when I got fuckin white-girl wasted and sang Pat Benetar.”

“A wasted Mickey is a datable Mickey,” Mandy offered hesitantly, like she expected Mickey to lash out.

He took a deep breath. He wasn’t his father. Mickey might curse and yell as his siblings, but they gave as good as they got, and never held grudges over the little shit.

Mickey let his eyes drop down, reading the profile they’d written about him.

“I wouldn’t commit a crime for a Snickers bar! I’m a fucking lawyer!”

His siblings exchanged a glance.

“An’ I’m not ‘ _ good with children _ .’ Makes me sound like a dog for adoption!”

“We just wanted to put your best face forward.”

The computer chime went off again, and Mickey frowned. Now that he knew what the noise meant, the implications were stark: that somewhere in the city a man was looking at his picture and deciding,  _ Yeah, I’d fuck him _ . The cold chill on his neck intensified.

Iggy began flipping through the responsee’s picture.

“No. No. Yeah-no. No. Maybe. No.” Mandy assessed each one faster than Mickey could even begin to focus, distracted by the wide expanses of skin and muscles on display. Tan skin, dark skin, Black skin, olive skin.  _ No pale skin _ , his mind noted distantly.

“No-”

“Hey, go back. That one looked - shit. I am  _ not  _ doing this right now. I have to interview Gallagher’s dates for his deposition.”

“Which you can do while going on dates of your own. Hashtag research.” Mandy looked pleased with herself.

“Hashtag research? Using my own love of research against me? You really ain’t my sister.”

“Plus, the chick who runs the diner across the street’s willing to offer you a friends and family lunch discount.”

“Why? We ain’t friends or family.”

“She seems to think you’ll stop being such a grumpy asshole if you get- Oof!”

Iggy had thrown an elbow into Mandy’s midsection, cutting her off. “What she  _ means  _ is that everyone real invested in your success. Professionally and personally.”

Mickey stared at his brother skeptically, eyebrow cocked.

“Fine. For research.” He went back to hide in his office while Mandy let out a squeak of glee.


	7. Chapter 7

While Mandy and Iggy schemed, Mickey set out to conduct his first interviews with Gallagher’s “dates.” He found the first one, the guy who talked about cats, at a small indie bookstore. The guy was wearing a thick sweater embroidered with a cat’s face, but aside from that, was a solid 7 in the face, maybe even an 8 in body, Mickey guessed. 

“Just wondering, did you ever go on a date with Ian Gallagher?” Mickey pulled out a picture of Gallagher, hoping it would jog the man’s memory.

The guy looked Mickey up and down: he was in his lawyer costume, thick wool peacoat and a green scarf, look only interrupted by his shit-kicking boots that he refused to abandon. 

“Yes, I remember him, because he actually looked like his photo.”

“Some guys don’t look like their photos?” Mickey peered at the headshot in confusion. 

\---

Mickey sat in the diner, waiting nervously. Mandy had confiscated his phone before he’d left so he didn’t have anything to fidget with or distract him. A quick glance at the woman at the counter didn’t help, she gave him a wide grin and a thumbs up.

The bell over the door rang, and a man came in carrying a small floral arrangement. Mickey quickly thought back to the man he was supposed to be meeting- tall, thin, and a full head of curly brown hair. The man approaching him with a smile was bald as a cue ball.

His confusion must have been evident on his face, because the bald man pulled out his own phone, frowned down at it, and walked back out the door.  _ Fuckin really? _

_ \-- _

The next of the men from the files Mickey went to find was the one who brought his parents. He’d tracked the man down from Gallagher’s notes, and was sitting in a comfortable chair in their well-appointed living room. 

Across from him, the guy, his mother, and his father were all crammed elbow to elbow on a small couch. 

“So how’d the date go?”

“It was the best date we’ve ever been on,” the dad answered effusively. 

The mom nodded and hummed in agreement.

“Wish he woulda asked for my number!” Dad added.

The man in between his parents wasn’t as handsome as Gallagher’s first date, but he seemed solid, serious, and reliable. Some dudes were into that, Mickey knew.

“Ian was the best,” the mother said. “Just a nice, normal guy.”

It was the son’s turn to smile and nod.

“Like, super normal,” the mother finished. 

“Some dates are abnormal?” Mickey asked, already fearing he knew the answer.

\---

He was at the diner again for date number two. This guy had at least made it to the table, which was progress. 

“So, veganism, huh?” Mickey had ordered before the man had arrived, anticipating being stood up or rejected again and not wanting to miss a meal. But that meant that a big, juicy, bacon cheeseburger was on its way to their table as he spoke…

“Yeah.” The man, Ben, wasn’t given to long speeches, it seemed.

“As in you just… don’t eat meat?”

“Not just meat. Dairy, eggs, fish, and honey. Pretty much anything animals are involved in, I don’t eat.”

“Wow.” Mickey was speechless. Animals made up, well, all of his diet basically. “Isn’t that dangerous, or…”

“No, no, it’s super good for you. It actually makes my cum taste like berries.”

Wide-eyed, Mickey could just blink at Ben.

“It’s how Medieval kings used to eat, that’s how they satisfied so many partners. Meat weighs the body down, if you know what I mean,” Ben leered.

“Wasn’t the life expectancy for a Medieval king, like, 40?”

The logic didn’t seem to deter Ben, because he launched into a long pedantic speech on the virtues of veganism for mental, physical, and sexual health. When he finally paused to take a breath, Mickey raised a finger. “Check, please!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s also plenty of trash in the sea. With Hep C and bad butt injections.

“So, tell me about your date with Ian Gallagher.” 

Mickey was on another fact-finding interview, at a coffee bar downtown. The bartender, also known as “the one who needed a date to his sister’s wedding,” wore a slouchy jacket and a knitted beanie on his head. 

“The date was fine, but I knew he wasn’t for me. I got a weird vibe,” the guy offered.

“What kind of a vibe?” Mickey hadn’t gotten any weird vibes off Gallagher, aside from the fact that he was a cocky fucker.

“It’s like Ian believes he’s genuinely looking for true love, but instead he just keeps proving love doesn’t even exist.”

“Huh.” That was  _ not  _ what Mickey had expected. Sure, he knew dating apps were nominally designed to find love, but he kinda thought everyone just knew and accepting they were for sex and hookups, especially for gay men. But then again, Love, Guaranteed, guaranteed love by name, so…

It was confusing as shit. Mickey scribbled some notes in his binder while the barista guy steamed milk. 

Feeling a bit like Columbo, Mickey had a follow-up question. “Did you ever find a date for your sister’s wedding?”

“That shit was cancelled.”

“Really? Damn.”

“Nah, it turns out the groom’s in love with my mom, not my sister. I’d die if that was me.”

Mickey’s eyes were wide, and he knew his expression was shocked.  _ Seriously? What was wrong with straight people? _

The barista seemed to expect him to say something, so Mickey groped for words. “Wow. Holidays must be wild at your house.”

“Yeah, I mean, at least Ian showed up. My last online date totally ghosted me.”

“Some dudes just don’t show up?”

It was the barista’s turn to give Mickey a skeptical look of disbelief.

\---

Mickey sat alone at the table, resting his head back on the banquette plastic. Three empty coffee cups sat before him. He stole another glance at the lady who owned the diner before checking his phone, _again_. Had he gotten the time wrong? 

**_See you at the diner at 6pm. Yum! Joe._ **

As Mickey read the message for the twentieth time, wondering if the guy’d maybe been in a car accident, if he needed to start calling hospitals, the screen changed.

**_The message you were looking for is no longer available._ **

Quickly, Mickey tapped at the screen, trying to pull up Joe’s profile. He’d been wearing glasses in an active, outdoors shot, with incongruous big headphones hanging around his neck.

**PROFILE NO LONGER AVAILABLE.**

The fuck did that mean? It took a moment, but Mickey finally believed what he was seeing- Joe, if that really was his name- had blocked Mickey. Just blown him off and instead of saying anything, had blocked him like a fuckin’ coward.

Mickey dropped his phone on the table in frustration, a scowl on his face.

\---

Back in the office, Mickey was slumped at the table in his office, recapping being stood up to his siblings.

“Dude, I don’t know how Ian managed it. I don’t. I mean, I’ve been on two dates and one no-show and I am exhausted. I’ve had so much coffee the world is shaking, and all I have to show for it is a notebook full of bullshit about how Ian Gallagher is so hot, Ian Gallagher is so nice. If he’s so great, why didn’t any of these guys actually get a second date?”

“It’s a jungle out there,” Iggy agreed. 

“Guys, there’s plenty of fish in the sea. You just have to keep looking!” Mandy, ever the optimist, offered.

“There’s also plenty of trash in the sea. With Hep C and bad butt injections.”

Mickey and Mandy stared at Iggy for a moment, before he shrugged. “What? I’ve been on bad dates, too!”

“Okay, we’re not gonna look at that one too closely. Here, Mickey, these are the affidavits for Ian to sign.” Mandy handed him a stack of papers.

“I’ll drive them over,” he stood tiredly.

“Oh, no. I can just email them and he can e-sign them. No need to make your day worse.” But Mandy’s face held a curious look, one that said she wanted Mickey to drive to see Ian tonight, despite how worn out he was.

“Are you kidding me? I’m fuckin’ dying of curiousity to see where this guy works. Has to be someplace upscale and preppy. Probably some office where he sits on his ass behind a desk all day.”

Iggy pointedly flicked his eyes to Mickey’s own desk.

“I don’t sit there all day! I go to court, I do research an' shit, I talk to people.” Mickey refuted Iggy’s silent criticism.

“I bet he’s a crossfit instructor- did you see those lats,” Mandy guessed.

“Probably runs an illegal poker game out of a parking garage,” Iggy offered. 

Opening up her drawer and pulling out a folder, Mandy read slowly. “Well, we’re all wrong.” She handed the folder to Mickey with a smile.

Mickey read the paper and then paused.  _ Well, that **was** a fuckin’ surprise.  _


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardly seems appropriate. If you have luck, I’m fucked.

Mickey’s van rolled down the familiar streets, music blasting as he pulled up to the Southside Rehabilitation Center, proudly proclaimed on a sign. He found a parking spot, not bothering to lock the van. Even if it was possible, who’d wanna steal this piece of crap?

Glancing up at the glass-fronted building, he wondered what Gallagher did here. Inside, a receptionist directed him through the twists and turns into a large open room at the back of the building, where a variety of people were working out. Well, working out was generous. One elderly man was walking slowly on a treadmill, using gymnastic’s rails to help hold himself up. A young woman was seated, twisting from the waist with a medicine ball held out in her hands. Each turn seemed to pain her a little, and there was a wrinkle of focus between her eyes. A female nurse was helping a middle-aged man adjust himself in a wheelchair as Mickey walked in, taking in the scene. 

Gallagher stood by the treadmill, holding a clipboard, making notes and chatting with the old man as he painstakingly walked. Instead of scrubs or a business suit, as Mickey had imagined, he wore a sweatsuit, just basic gym gear. 

Both the man on the treadmill and Gallagher looked up at Mickey’s entrance. After an appreciative glance at Gallagher’s grey sweatpants, Mickey’s eyes caught the man on the treadmill.

“Wait, what…? What’s happening here?” He pointed back and forth from Gallagher to Jerome, who had stopped walking, and was leaning heavily on the support bars.

“Hey, my crusader for justice!”

“Ok, so many things aren’t making sense about this picture.” Why was Jerome here? What did Gallagher do for a living, at this place? How did Jerome know Gallagher?

Jerome stepped carefully off the treadmill and greeted Mickey, giving him a big handshake that turned into a bearhug, Mickey being swallowed up by the man’s arms, only his surprised brows and hairline visible to Gallagher, who was looking on with a soft smile.

“Didn’t know you made housecalls.”

“Just doin my due diligence. Checking up on you, makin’ sure you’re on the up and up.” Mickey straightened his coat, pulling it back to some semblance of order.

“Making sure I’m an upstanding citizen?”

“Something like that.” Mickey hadn’t meant for the words to sound so … so flirty. Was that what was happening here? Were they flirting?

“He’s been hard at work making me a standing-up citizen,” Jerome put in happily. 

“Ok, man, good job today. I’ll see you again on Thursday.” Ian clicked his pen officially, pointing at Mickey. “I’ll be with _you_ in two seconds.” He walked over to the small, neat desk in the back corner of the open space and seemed to be filling out paperwork.

“Jerome. You’re how I landed my new client?” Mickey could hardly believe it- he’d always hoped word of mouth would eventually work in his favor, but had never seen it in action.

“Told you I wouldn’t forget how you helped me.”

Mickey ducked his head. He really hadn’t done much, just the basics of his job. Jerome was an easy client, easy case. 

“Besides,” the old man continued, “You’re a good lawyer, Milkovich, are you really surprised?”

“Well, Gallagher’s pretty surprising,” Mickey admitted, a little bashfully, as he carefully watched Gallagher inputting some notes on a laptop.

“Doctor said my dancing days were over, but Gallagher said that’s hogwash. He donates his time here, for the folks like me whose insurance won’t pay for PT. They would have me in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, but Ian got me up and walking around already! He’s a good egg. Like you.”

_Physical therapist. Huh, ok._

A nurse came back in, and Jerome got distracted by trying to flirt with her, despite having 20 years seniority on her. 

“Ok, So, what d’we got?” Gallagher looked Mickey up and down with a surprising amount of heat. Mickey had to force down a blush.

“Just a few things for you to sign. He rifled through his bag, finding the papers and producing them.

As Gallagher began looking them over, clicking his pen a few times, he stopped, and looked up at Mickey. 

“Guess what?”

_Shit_.

“Uh… what?”

“Tomorrow’s it.” 

At Mickey’s blank look, he explained. “My one thousandth date.”

“Well, good for you, man.” Mickey wasn’t sure where to look or what expression he was supposed to have. One thousandth date. Great for the case. This was good news, probably. Unless this one worked out, in which case all his hard work was for nothing…

“Thanks.” 

There was an awkward moment of silence between them as Ian handed the papers back and Mickey shoved them messily into his bag. 

“So, uh, show me his profile.” Where had _that_ come from?

“For my date?”

“Yup.”

Ian’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, man.”

“Why not?”

“Uh, I dunno. It’s weird?”

“It’s for the case.” Mickey had no idea _why_ he was so insistent on seeing Gallagher’s final date. It wasn’t because he wanted to see more men Gallagher had picked out- so far there was no “type” he could identify to the thousand men.

“For the case?” Gallagher sounded dubious.

“Sure.” Mickey was staunch. 

With a shrug, Gallagher pulled out his phone and opened the app, before passing his phone to Mickey. 

“Tim, ok. Pretty hot, good teeth. Nice ass. I ain’t even an ass man, and I can see that’s a nice ass.”

Gallagher was staring at him, open-mouthed. 

Mickey shrugged, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “What?”

“Just- I didn’t… I thought you-” Gallagher was stuttering.

Fucking hell.

Finally, Ian seemed to pull himself together. “Yeah, so, uh, nice ass, he has a nice ass. I agree completely.”

Mickey went back to perusing the profile. “Tim is 32, a fifth grade teacher, and he enjoys hiking and gardening. Sounds boring as fuck, but if that’s your bag, whatever, man.”

He handed the phone back to Gallagher, who still seemed a little boggled by Mickey’s confirmation of his sexuality.

“He seems nice.”

“Nice is the number one red flag,” Ian replied quickly. “Anyone who sounds too good to be true on the internet is a lie.”

“I had noticed that, yeah.” As much as Mickey was a misanthrope, it seemed out of character for Gallagher, for anyone claiming to seek love.

“Yeah, well, wish me luck today, I'm taking him to the Bellmore.”

“Hardly seems appropriate. If you have luck, I’m fucked.”

Ian’s eyes bulged, and Mickey quickly processed what he’d said to get that reaction.

“We’re fucked. If you have luck, our case is fucked. Shit. You know what I mean!”

“Right. Cause the case.”

Mickey beat a hasty retreat, practically out the door was he tossed a last comment over his shoulder, just trying to keep himself from saying anything else dumb.

“Exactly.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mickey! You’re so fine! Hey, Mickey!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: There is a MINOR change to CH 9- basically, Ian told Mickey he’s taking Tim to the Bellmore. No need to go re read. :)

Ian was on his thousandth date, and it was  _ not  _ going well. He sat across from his date at the upscale dinner spot that he’d had to make a reservation for, the Bellmore. He’d tried to get them to go to his usual spot, but his date had some special restrictions: Tim the teacher had started out by telling him that he didn’t eat sugar, dairy, gluten, seeds, or vinegar.

_ What did that even leave to eat? Spinach, probably. _

Trying to stay positive, Ian ordered a coke, which had the penguin-suited waiter looking like something was wrong with him, rather than his date, who was the one scrutinizing the menu to find anything he was able to safely ingest. 

_ Was it a moral issue, or a medical one _ , Ian wondered. He didn’t really care enough to find out. Tim was cute, looked like he worked out and took care of himself, but he hadn’t asked Ian one question about himself, only pontificated about himself, his students, his dogs. Self-centeredness was a turnoff, but maybe he was just nervous.

The dim lighting and clean tablecloths were nice, and the background atmosphere of lightly clinking silverware and quiet conversation lent themselves to romance. If only he was there with someone who wasn’t close to boring him to tears.

“Does the pecan-crusted tuna have nuts in it,” Tim grilled the waiter.

“Pecans are nuts,” Ian offered, wondering how Tim could be a teacher and yet so fuckin’ stupid.

Tim finally looked up from the menu at Ian, seeming to see him for the first time. “What’re you ordering?”

“Uh, I was looking at the eggplant parm.”

“Nightshades are poison! You can’t have that! I’ll just order you what I get, much better.”

Ian rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. 

Tim went back to the menu, trying to find the one safe item. “Seriously, could this menu have more mollusks on it? I eat even one shellfish and I’ll be covered in eczema like the Elephant man.”

_ Medical, then.  _ That felt marginally more excusable. Maybe he could change the subject…

“D’ya hear the one about the greedy clam? He was a little  _ shellfish _ .” 

Tim stared at Ian, wide-eyed, confused. He gave a little nod, and went back to the menu.

_ Jesus christ, this was like pulling teeth. Fuck nice guys, they were the literal worst. _

\---

The glass door opened, and Mickey stepped into the Bellmore. It might be the fanciest place he’d ever stood in, let alone eaten at. The hostess greeted him, but he was busy staring around at the well-dressed clientele. These were the people he hoped to have come to him as clients some day, so he needed to act like he belonged here.

He was only here at all because he was curious about Gallagher’s final date, worried about the  _ case _ . The case was the key here- if the lawsuit evaporated ‘cause Gallagher found love, Mickey wouldn’t have to give back the retainer check, but it would negate all the work he’d put in. 

Men and women, all dressed well and with heavy jewelry and expensive watches sat at the tables. Mickey’s eyes drifted to a couple. Looking over the brunet’s shoulder, his eyes slid up strong shoulders to -  _ familiar fucking red hair. _

He ducked behind the hostess station. Subtly checking up on Gallagher was one thing, stalking him was crossing a line. She peered down at him, unperturbed. “How many in your party, sir?”

Mickey held up his pointer finger, trying to clench his fist tight so she wouldn’t see the tattoos on his other fingers. Grabbing and opening a menu to shield his face, Mickey followed the hostess past Ian and fuckface, Tim’s, table. Mr.-Fuckin’-Nice-Guy Tim was spouting some nonsense about an Epi-pen, and chicken, which made no fuckin’ sense. Ian looked bored to tears, head resting on his fist, elbow on the table, staring into the middle distance as Mickey stealthily made his way to a small high-top table. The chairs were exaggerated bar stools that had him scrambling to climb up and sit.

Once settled, he positioned the menu carefully so he could observe the date. His side profile was to the bar as he ordered a jack and coke.

“Hey, I know you,” a slurring voice called. A slurring,  _ familiar  _ voice. 

_ Shit _ . 

Mickey glanced around, hoping he was invisible, but there at the bar was his first  _ Love, Guaranteed _ date- the vegan guy, Bob? Brad?

“Mickey!” 

It was  _ Ben _ . And he was calling out to Mickey from halfway across the restaurant. 

_ No, oh fuck, no. _

No way was he gonna be able to hide out now. 

“Hey, Mickey! Like the song!”

Still hiding behind his menu, Mickey scrunched his shoulders, trying to be smaller, but Ben was clearly more than a little wasted as he wobbled his way to Mickey’s table.

“Mickey! You’re so fine! Hey, Mickey!”

“Yeah, man, it’s me. Shut up, ok?” Mickey hissed at Ben, hoping in vain that Ian was too captivated with Tim to hear. Even though basically every head in the place was turned to watch Ben’s approach. 

The man looked around and gestured broadly, “It’s Mickey, everybody. We used to datttte.” A table of women looked on in bemusement as he placed a hand on their table to support him as Ben tried to add a little jovial bounce to his walk. “I know- he’s so cute, right?”

_ Awesome. Complimented by a drunk idiot.  _

Ben stood, listing a little to the left, in front of Mickey’s table. “May I, um, purchase you a drink?”

Mickey scowled at him. “What’re you doing here? Ain’t you supposed to be avoiding places that serve meat or some shit?”

“It’s my cheat window,” Ben confided in a loud whisper, sitting down sloppily on the stool across from Mickey. The tall fucker had no problem just sitting  _ down  _ on it.

“Smells like your fuckin’ drinking window, guy.” Mickey put his menu up as a barrier between them; Ben smelled like he’d been drinking wood-grain alcohol, not fancy wine or bar drinks.

“Yeah, bit a’ that too,” the man admitted. “You know….”

Mickey watched in horror as the words trailed off, and the man began to slump, clearly in danger of falling off the high stool. He jumped up, and stretched out his arms to try and catch Ben, figuring it was better than being an observer to the train wreck. As he held a bleary Ben in his arms, supporting most of the man’s weight, his eyes locked with Ian’s across the room.

Time slowed, and Mickey felt not the mockery he expected but genuine empathy for his situation, with a little totally-appropriate humor. Ben groaned into his neck, sticky breath warm and uncomfortable, bringing Mickey back to the present.

“Listen to me, asshole. You need ta’ eat something and take a fuckin’ nap. Up on three. One, two…” Mickey heaved Ben up, and the man managed to stand upright, before turning tipsily back towards Mickey, leaning in far too close for comfort. “Maybe, I’ll slide into your DMs later.”

“Don’t know what that is, but it sounds fuckin’ gross.”

Ben stumbled off across the restaurant, snagging a carafe of wine off a random table as he went.

Ian was still staring, a small half-smile on his face.

\---

“Who’s that?” Tim asked, having missed most of the commotion in his fixation with the menu.

“That is my lawyer,” Ian answered automatically. He gave a little wave, and Mickey waved back sheepishly. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one I didn’t see coming.

Mickey and Ian were seated together at the high table in the Bellmore’s dining room. Mickey’d gulped down a glass of wine to quell his anxiety at being found basically stalking his client, but he thought he was covering it up well with talk of the case.

“I mean, these men could be subpoenaed. I had to make sure you weren’t intentionally torpedoing your dates.”  _ Yup, that sounded legit. For sure. _

“You were spying on me,” Ian replied with a little shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“No,” Mickey protested loudly. 

“Yeah, you were.” Ian’s grin had begun to emerge, and Mickey had to focus on keeping a straight face. 

Business. Research. Work. Laws.

“No! Ok, maybe. A little. Professionally, though.” 

Ian used air quotes. “Professionally. Sure.” But that grin was still trying to break free on his face.

“I’m sorry I ruined your date.” Mickey was genuinely sorry that his incompetence at hiding had led to ruination of Ian’s date. Not that the date looked very good.

“It’s ok, it was terrible. It really was, she knows.” Ian indicated the waitress who’d come over to check on them.

The waitress looked at Mickey in consternation. “Wow. You work fast, Ian.”

Ian didn’t even try to protest, but Mickey gave a little giggle that he would definitely be blaming on the wine before trying to explain. “No, I’m not a- the app- oh, never mind.”

“What can I get you,” the waitress deadpanned.

“Oh, I’m good. Thanks.”

Ian proffered a hand. “Please, it’s the least I can do.”

“I am hungry,” Mickey wavered, then picked up the menu, quickly scanning for anything he recognized that was under $20.  _ Got it. _ “Burger and fries. Please.”

“That’s it?” The waitress seemed confused by his order.

“Yep.” 

“No special requests?” 

“Oh, hey, extra onion on the burger, if you got it?”

Instead of replying, the waitress looked at Ian with a little smile. “I like this one. Be back with your food soon.”

Ian snorted, but didn’t reply to the woman as she left them alone. A brief silence fell, and Mickey felt the burden fall to him to restart the conversation.

“So this is where all the magic happens, eh?”

“Oh, yeah, this is my lucky table.”

_ Huh? _

“Is it, though?” That wine was messing with him, because he’d thought the table was the opposite of lucky for Ian, so far.

“Actually, no.” They shared a laugh. “This thing must be cursed, let’s go sit somewhere else.”

\---

At a larger, fancier, and more private booth, where Mickey did  _ not  _ have to clamber up ten stories into the air just to sit, they were finishing their meals. 

“The only thing I ever wanted was to join the military. But then I had some issues at home, and suddenly I was out. Ineligible to enlist, for life.”

Mickey felt a pang of hurt for the kid Ian must have been, wanting to be a big damn hero and being slapped down over something he had no control over.

“You know, it’s funny. Your whole life can just change in the blink of an eye. A doctor says a word, one sentence, and you’re done.”

“That’s terrible fuckin’ luck, man. I’m sorry.” Mickey didn’t know what to say, really, but he hoped what he’d said wasn’t overtly offensive, at least.

“Only thing that got me thru it was working out. I kept trying to figure out what to do with my life, then I broke my foot. PT was hard, but it also felt really good, you know? My PT lady, Ravena, she was so funny. And tough! She just really inspired me to do the hard work to heal. Physically and all the other stuff too, you know?”

Mickey nodded, not sure at all what Gallagher meant, but trying to look like he did.

“So I decided to do the same thing myself, become a PT.”

This at least Mickey followed. “Inspire thru bad dad-jokes?”

“No, I’m mean. I yell a lot.” Inexplicably, Ian grinned, his whole face transforming from leading-man handsome to goofy kid for a moment, and Mickey was helpless to do anything but grin back. 

“What about you? I bet you were a kid crusader for justice.”

Mickey laughed in his face. “You could not be further from the truth.”

“Busting rigged hide-and-go seek games around the neighborhood,” Ian continued, undeterred.

“Seriously, I was in juvie multiple times, then prison on some trumped up bullshit. My family- we have a rep. But my sister never stopped trying to get my sentence overturned, she eventually found the Innocence Project, and they got me out. Watching them do their thing really changed my life. I’d always thought there was something in me, just hardwired from birth to be trash, fucked for life, you know. I got the GED in jail, and did some college classes ‘cause I was bored. Then law school didn’t seem so impossible.”

Ian watched, listened, nodded, but didn’t interrupt. Mickey realized he’d never talked this openly to another man, and especially not to a client, about his life. 

“One time, when I was little, my dad got a bootleg copy of The Fugitive on VHS, right? I remember him tellin’ me that everytime he went back to jail, it was cause he was innocent, just like Harrison Ford, and I believed him. How dumb is that, I  _ believed  _ him?”

“You serious?” Ian was chuckling as he asked.

“Yeah. My dad still tries to get me to do shit for him, get him out on technicalities, but I don’t take his calls anymore. He did all that shit, and worse, stuff they’ll never find enough evidence to convict him of, so he can just rot in there. Fuck, he did worse than that to me, and that’s reason enough for him to die in prison. But he still calls my sister, and she talks to him sometimes.”

“Your dad’s still in prison?”

“Yep. Right where he belongs.”

“Good for you, Mick. Proud of you.”

Mickey didn’t know what to say, so he stared down at his empty plate. 

“Look, before the trial is over,” Ian continued, “we can watch The Fugitive together. I think as an adult you’ll like it better.”

The words slipped out of Mickey’s alcohol infused brain before he could stop them. “It’s a date.” Then he heard himself, and felt his eyes widen. “Shit, no, that’s not what I meant. Sorry. Not a date.”

Ian just smiled softly. “I know what you meant.”

“You get it.”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Cool.” Why was he such a moron, seriously? If his job didn’t literally rely on his ability to talk, Mickey would cut his own tongue out at the awkwardness of their lamely limping conversation.

Gallagher had no such compunctions. “Actually… this is the best dinner I’ve had in a really long time.”

Mickey met his eyes, wondering what  _ that  _ meant. “Same.”

After they split the check, they walked down the darkened city street to where Mickey had parked the van. 

“So, you know all about my love life, Mickey. Why don’t you tell me about yours?”

_ Fuck _ . “Nothin’ to tell,” he tried, digging his hands into his pockets against the chilly air.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, I’m runnin’ a business with my siblings, trying to keep the rent paid and the lights on. It’s a lot. I just don’t have time for a relationship right now.” He wasn’t about to spill his guts about Svetlana and Yev living next door quite yet. If ever. “Someday, you know. Maybe I will. Find the right guy, settle down, get a dog. But not today.”

“Hmm,” was Ian’s inscrutable first response. “Well, there had to be someone.”

“Of course there was. Back in high school, I thought we’d make it out together, be with him forever. But that was a long time ago, shit went south, he’s long gone. My dad had other plans for me, and that took over everything for a long time; feels like I’m only just coming up for air now.”

There was something about Gallagher that made Mickey just keep talking in a way he was unaccustomed to, openly. 

“What kinda plans?”

“The kind that involved me bein’ straight and giving him grandkids.”

Instead of interrogating that part of his story, Ian changed the subject. “Seriously, how far away did you park?”

“I wasn’t about to pay for valet at The Bellmore. Twelve dollars? That’s highway robbery!”

“Right,” Ian agreed.

“Besides, this is me.” Mickey stopped in front of the van.

“Oh, so this is yours?”

“Yep, this is Van Damn.”

“Nice, Van Damn, that’s sweet.”

“Sweet? No, no, no. Van Damn is a vigilante, he tracks down ruthless villains.”

“Lot tougher than he looks, then. You into martial arts movies?”

“Who isn’t?” Mickey had fitted the door handle back on and with a wrench was able to get the door open. 

“Well, you are full of surprises, Mickey Milkovich.” 

They stood on the sidewalk beside the van. Mickey knew what to do on a date at this point, grab the guy and plant one on him, make some kinda move. But this wasn’t a date, this was work. Totally different rules, right?

Ian put out one hand, and Mickey shook it. 

“Handshake, eh?”

“Yeah. It’s my signature end-of-the-date move,” Ian admitted. “It’s my way of saying goodbye, good luck, and have a nice life.” 

Mickey’s heart leapt and then fell in his chest. Had Gallagher implied that they’d been on a date? Clearly not, if this was how it was ending. And why did any of that matter? He was a client, nothing more and nothing less.

“Another efficient transaction, then.” 

“Yes, it is.”

Mickey just had one more question. “Hey. If you were gonna name tonight like one of your dates, what would the title be?”

Ian looked at him gravely, no smile on his face as he answered. “The one I didn’t see coming.”

With a snort, Mickey got into the van. “Night, Gallagher.”

From the sidewalk, Ian continued watching him. “Night, Mick.”

As soon as the engine turned over, the stereo kicked in, and the chords of _ Love is a Battlefield _ began to play. Ian rapped on the window, and Mickey rolled it down laboriously.

“What is that noise from your car?”

“That’s Pat Benatar.”

“Pat Benatar?”

“Yeah.”

“No idea what that is.”

“You don’t know Pat Benatar? You heathen,” Mickey teased. “She was like, one of the biggest female rock stars of the 80’s.”

“ _ Oh _ ! Pat Benatar!” Ian exaggerated his face, so it looked like he was suddenly remembering the singer, then let the act drop. “Yeah, still don’t know. I have no clue.”

“You hadta have heard it man, it was every- Are you kidding? I can’t tell right now.”

Ian shrugged with a little smile. “Possibly.”

“Goodnight, Ian.”

“Goodnight, Pat.”

Mickey pulled away from the curb, suddenly warm for no reason he could identify. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter count- I have no clue. We're about 1/3 of the way through the movie, so maybe 20 more chapters? But my DREAM is to be more concise and convey more with fewer words. Haha. We'll see. More to come! (Also Van Damn is a clearly steal from Sense8.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heraclitus, not Buddha.

In his office the next day, Mickey was returning phone calls from current clients. He might have let a few too many days go by without checking his voicemail (wasn’t that Mandy’s job? Or Iggy?) and now he was answering vacuous questions in his most serious voice.

“Ms. Kapoor, you can call your own exterminator.”

“Yes, absolutely. Tenant law stipulates that you’re entitled to a pest-free apartment, absolut-”

The door to his office slammed open and Iggy came spilling in. Instead of interrupting Mickey, though, he stood there, hands clasped anxiously in front of him.

_Shit_.

“Okay, well, let me know how it goes, Ms. K. Thank you. Have a good one.”

She finally hung up and he set the handset down in the cradle, turning his attention to his brother, who was practically vibrating with - excitement? Distress? It was hard to tell.

“Iggy, there’s the concept called knocking. You make a fist, you pull it back-”

“Geez, ok, fine,” Iggy huffed, stepping to the doorframe to knock quickly on it, then turning his attention back to Mickey, who waited for the news.

“Love, Guaranteed is on line two.”

Mickey felt all the air in his lungs evaporate. Dissolve? It was gone, however it happened. He managed to squeak out, “You can bust in for that,” as Mandy leaned in from the door, and both of his siblings watched as Mickey hit the extension and picked up the phone.

“Milkovich.”

A cultured, smooth voice in his ear began. _‘Mr. Milkovich, so good to hear your voice. I’m Lloyd Lishman, general counsel to Tamara Taylor. I hear we’ve got a little business to take care of and I wanted to call you in so we can make this easy.’_

“Mm-hm.”

_‘I know you’re a busy man, so am I. Golf and martinis don’t drink themselves, am I right?’_

“Uh-huh.” 

_‘So let’s do this thing. You bring your client, I’ll bring Ms. Taylor, and we can smooth things over. Tomorrow good for you?’_

“Yes, absolutely.”

_‘Excellent. 10am. Early enough that we can still get a tee-time for 1, right? Ok, see you then.’_

“We look forward to it.”

Slowly, Mickey hung up the phone. His siblings eyes were pinned to him, waiting with baited breath to know what only he had heard through the phone.

“That was Lloyd Lishman, the head lawyer for Love, Guaranteed. He invited us to a meeting at their headquarters with none other than Tamara Taylor.”

This meant Love, Guaranteed was taking the suit seriously. Taking him seriously. He’d never been so excited to listen to anyone talk about golf before in his life.

\---

The headquarters building was all modern design- glass and nordic minimalism. Mickey pulled Van Damn right up to the front of the building’s curb, where the valet reached to pull open the door. The tricky handle came off in the poor man’s hand as Mickey and Ian got out and stared up at the cold exterior of the number one romance and dating app’s physical address.

The atrium of the space was many stories high; the physical space was dominated by long, hanging display ads with happy couples and the app’s logo. Every couple was doing some cheesy pose, staring into each other’s eyes or some shit. Most of the couples were straight, with one token pair of women hidden in a less well-lit corner of the space.

“Oh… cozy,” Ian remarked as they approached the receptionist’s desk. The desk was a huge white arc, separating the perky blonde woman from any and all comers. The color and the height, the coolness of the space and the open floorplan all suggested the opposite of what Mickey associated with romance. Warmth, heat, _comfort_.

It was still his job to play nice, so he introduced them. “Hi. MIckey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher for Tamara Taylor.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Mickey looked at the woman. She may have been hired for her impeccable typing and filing skills, but he had the feeling she was mere window dressing. Her smile was a little too white, her ponytail a little too tight, and her blazer was well outside a receptionist’s salary. He felt a twinge of guilt at judging her by appearances: wasn’t that his main gripe about dating apps? That they encouraged people to treat finding a romantic partner like a matching game of who looked good, instead of who could make them happy.

Once the receptionist had verified their appointment and they had signed in (Mickey had declined to provide his personal email address), they were directed upstairs to the fourth floor penthouse. _Of course Tamara Taylor was in the penthouse._

As they waited for the elevator, Ian stared at a couple on the poster hanging nearby. “Right, Brad and Veronica met at Love, Guaranteed.” He scoffed. “Brad and Veronica, if those are even their real names, are clearly models.”

Mickey peered at the couple for a moment. “Just ‘cause they’re implausibly attractive doesn’t mean they’re paid models, Gallagher.” Didn’t mean they were or weren’t. Mickey wasn’t about to badmouth Love Guaranteed in their own lobby. He definitely wouldn’t put it past Tamara Taylor to listen in on their conversation from the moment they stepped in the building. 

Ok, he admitted, so his brand of conspiracy theory was a little different than Ian’s. Didn’t mean either was wrong.

“Don’t you have faith in anything good in this world?” Mickey didn’t believe what he was saying, just covering his ass and letting his mouth run, but he also wanted to see what Gallagher would say.

“Sure. Just not Brad and Veronica. They’re fake and they’re phony. Look at their teeth- those are veneers, Mick, I swear to god!”

“How can you tell?” Mickey was humoring him, wondering when the elevator would finally arrive.

“Just look at them!” They exchanged a grin of understanding, and Mickey wondered if Gallagher’s straight, white, even teeth were veneers. What were veneers, anyway? He shook himself back into the task at hand.

“To be clear, you’re objecting because they’re fake, not ‘cause you don’t believe in love, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ground rules, you ready?”

Gallagher stared at him, then shrugged. “I guess?”

  
“ _I_ do the talking. You- no snarking, no snickering, no snorting.”

“Snorting?”

This had to be the slowest elevator on the planet. Mickey could definitely have walked the four flights faster than this thing.

“Yeah, man, when you’re trying not to laugh you make a sound kind of like… _chhh_.” He tried to mimic the noise Gallagher had made at their dinner.

“That sounds nothing like me,” Ian replied stiffly.

“It’s exactly like you!” 

“Nope.”

“We’ll see. I’ll get it on tape, then you can see too.”

“On tape? How old are you, Mick? Tape. We have digital cameras in our phones now, ya know?”

The elevator door slid open and revealed a long table filled with old men in nearly identical suits. Their ties were all shades of the same muted palette, and barring hair loss, all had the same cut and style. It was eerie as the (Mickey counted quickly) eight doppelgangers all swiveled their heads to give Mickey and Ian the same dispassionate, assessing glance. 

One stood, inviting them in.

“Mr. Milkovich, Lloyd Lishman.” He held out his hand. 

This was Mickey’s favorite part of any meeting with a stuffed shirt. He took the offered hand, turning it slightly so his own knuckles were clearly visible and squeezed, doing the usual male-dominance move before the older man dropped Mickey’s hand abruptly, having read the tattoos.

“My client, Ian Gallagher.”

Ian and Lloyd shook hands, and Lloyd seemed relieved not to have any further profanity laden body parts pointed at him. Rather than speaking, Ian gave a noncommittal grunt. He was really taking Mickey’s instructions to heart, which was good… probably.

Lishman showed them to the empty seats at the table, and all three sat. He took a deep breath and then pressed a heretofore hidden intercom, saying carefully and clearly, “We’re ready for her.”

All the suits in the room straightened up, pulling their sleeves into regulation array, tucking wayward ties and wisps of hair into place.

A pair of screen doors painted with tigers slid back and Tamara Taylor entered the room. Mickey only recognized her cause Mandy had shoved a trashy magazine under his nose, muttering something about jade eggs and steaming. She wore a silver sheath dress and a series of statement necklaces. Her hair was expertly arranged to look relaxed, yet perfect, and she was followed by a small, serious young woman holding a notebook to her chest.

“Tashi delek. Jug rog nang. Tibetan greeting. Namaste.” Tamara folded her hands as if she were praying and made a small half bow to the room. “Have you been offered a drink?”

Shit, Mickey could use alcohol right now, and by the anxious tapping of Gallagher’s foot against his own, so could he. But this wasn’t the place. They could drink away their stress later, on their own time. 

Tamara Taylor was still talking. “Filtered stream water? I have it flown in from Southern Chile.” She stared expectantly at Mickey, who gulped. 

“I’m fine.”

“We’re fine.”

Both Ian and Mickey spoke over each other, expressing their disinterest in water, but Taylor still directed her assistant to pour them each glasses. What was the obsession rich people had with hydration?

Tamara sat at the head of the table and flashed her expensive smile. “I was just shocked and disappointed to hear that you brought a complaint against Love, Guaranteed.”

Mickey began his rehearsed reply. “Well, per the Deceptive Trade Practices Act, corporations are barred from engaging in misrepresentation, bait-and-switch advertising, and other fraudulent behaviors to promote their products, so… here we are.”

The end had sounded more pointed and cutting when he’d practiced it in his office earlier.

“Oh, Mr. Milkovich,” Tamara had leaned forward, as if they were only inches apart, rather than at opposite ends of the massive board table. “Have you ever been to Pangong Tso in Tibet?”

_Fat chance._ “No.” _Musta missed that on my whirlwind world tour._

“It is a transformative place. I went on a two-month barefoot walkabout through the high grasslands-”

Mickey was sure the grasslands hadn’t been the only high thing on that trip. He could sense, more than see, Ian’s eyes rolling back, so he kicked the man’s ankle, trying to tell him to keep it together, behave. 

“-asking myself, ‘What is my purpose on Earth?’ One day,-”

Now it was Mickey’s turn to stare hard so he could resist the eye-roll.

“-a lone bird swooped across the sky and I felt loneliness to the deepest core of my essence-”

_Was her essence near her ass, or her ovaries?_

“-and I thought, I will solve loneliness.”

It was clearly _meant_ to sound profound, but Ian’s snort of derision ruined that moment. Mickey kicked his ankle harder this time.

Tamara continued, unbothered. “My website brings all people, regardless of… persuasion, much needed hope, love, connection, joy, happiness, life to the masses.”

_Had this bitch just said her site brought life to the masses? What kinda fucked-up savior complex did she have? It was just a fucking dating app._

Mickey had to say something. “Except that you’re not selling love, joy, and hope. You’re selling a love guarantee. Now, everyone here knows that language is legally binding. So. We have a case,” he glanced at Ian, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, “You all know it. What are you offering?”

Because that was what it came down to. He had a case. They had cash. They were gonna throw cash at him and Ian to go away. 

“Lloyd?” Tamara’s face had gone flat, all the fillers leaving it an unwrinkled, bland expanse.

“Well.” Lloyd set his pen aside and stared at Mickey. “We have a very generous settlement to offer. One hundred thousand dollars, with a signed non-disclosure agreement. I have the forms right here, we can cut the check today.”

One. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. $100,000. Anyone casually tossing around that kind of cash still left him a little in awe, even if it wasn’t nearly enough. _Play it cool, play it cool._

“One hundred thousand dollars wouldn’t even begin to cover the expenses of Mr. Gallagher’s dates. We request five hundred thousand dollars in restitution, the promise that your company scrubs all language of a love guarantee from its website and advertising, and I would obviously need to review any NDA before my client can sign it.”

_Take that, Tibet._

Lloyd raised a hand with a chuckle. “I’m sorry, Mr. Milkoivch, you seem to be under the mistaken belief that this is a negotiation.”

It was Tamara’s turn to speak up again. “We have looked into you, Mr. Milkovich. And we see that your earnest little boutique firm is under water. You’re failing.”

_Harsh, and not true. Not quite true, at least. Not yet._

“This little ‘jailbird makes good’, do-gooder crusader for justice scam, it might impress your clients but it doesn’t do anything for me. No woman gets hot for a bus stop lawyer, Mr. Milkovich.”

She obviously thought Mickey batted for the other team. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, and breathe deeply so he wouldn’t go Southside on her ass. “Well, luckily, we’re not here to talk about me. We are here to discuss my client’s case. Which you clearly know has merit, judging by the frankly insulting settlement you offered.”

“Take the settlement, Milkovich.” Lloyd was trying to play hardball, but he was soft at heart, and Mickey could smell it on him. “We won’t offer it again.”

“The Buddha once said,” Tamara intoned, “No man can step in the same river twice.” 

Ian leaned forward and opened his dumb mouth. Mickey tried to elbow him, but it was too late. 

“Do you know why I hired Mickey?”

“Gallagher, shut up, please,” he hissed desperately.

Ian ignored him. “Because he is the opposite of you, okay? He has character, and principles. And a sense of common decency.”

“Thanks, man.” _Wasn’t all true but it did sound good._

“Hmm.” Tamara tapped her lacquered fingernail against her painted lips. Her sex appeal was lost on Ian, obviously, but maybe she was trying to influence Mickey, who could tell? “Well, I have a billion dollar empire ro run. So just sign the papers and we’ll pay you out and this little PR headache will go away, k?”

That’s really how she saw them, Mickey realized. As a little “ _PR headache_.”

Ian looked at Mickey, who smiled. Not his friendly, relaxed smile. His you-made-a-mistake smile. 

“No deal, Ms. Taylor. We will see you in court, where we will request one million in punitive damages. Oh, and by the way, people of “our persuasion” know that was Heraclitus, not Buddha.” 

“What?” Tamara Taylor looked confused and put out, her mouth managing to frown against the botox.

“The river quote? Yeah. Those inspirational prison posters, they have such tiny fine print. But if you’re bored enough, you’ll read anything. Really, really carefully.”

He turned and approached the elevator. Gallagher, not satisfied with Mickey’s performance, mimed a mic drop. “By the way? That water’s gross.”

They stood facing the elevator, backs to the room and table, full of lawyers. Mickey could feel them all watching, as he waited and waited for the fucking doors to open.

“Are they staring at us?” Ian asked him sotto voce.

“Yup, definitely.” Mickey didn’t even have to look. “All of ‘em.”

“Shoulda taken the stairs.”

“Yup.”

Finally, the little arrival bell dinged and they stepped into the carriage. Of fuckin’ course the doors took the longest time to decide they’d entered and slide closed again, protecting them at last from the prying, hate-filled eyes of the homophobes and bureaucrats at the table. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You been playin’ in the shallow end where it’s safe. That ain’t where you’re gonna find love. Not the real thing. To find that, you gotta dive deep.

In the elevator, the two men were elated, the joy fizzing off of them in waves. Mickey needed to let it out somehow, and gave Gallagher a light shoulder punch. 

Ian blushed. “You did so good, man. That was just- that was awesome!”

“If Tamara Taylor thinks that she can steamroll us, she’s got another think coming!” 

“Yeah… thing,” Ian corrected, still grinning. “Another thing coming.”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid quietly open. 

Mickey raised an eyebrow at him, “No, no. It’s think. Like, think again, bitch.”

“Ha!” Ian laughed fakely, his face a little tense. “No, it’s definitely thing.”

They walked through the big open atrium, and Mickey sighed. “Do you always have to be right?”

Ian’s brow furrowed. “Only when the other person’s wrong.”

Internally, Mickey stopped himself from continuing the debate, resolving instead to look that shit up when he got back to the office. 

At the curb, waiting for the valet to pull up his van, they stood, the disagreement tinting the air with something less positive. 

Mickey brushed his hair back, looking at everything except Gallagher. “Hey, uh, thank you.” He could feel Ian’s curious gaze on him. “For backing me up in there. Meant a lot.”

Brushing off the compliment, Ian scuffed his fancy shoes on the brick pavers. “Ah, you stand up for people all day. Someone’s gotta have your back.”

No one ever had before. Sure, Mandy and Iggy  _ tried _ , but they weren’t his equals. It was different when someone you respected and… liked stood up for you. Hit different, or some shit.

The strains of Pat Benatar began to float up as the van came around the corner. 

“Oh! You really like that song a lot, don’t you?” Ian was staring at the van, with its mismatched body panels and frankly oppressive sound system.

Drawing his mouth down, Mickey rubbed at his nose. “The tape- it’s actually stuck in the player.”

“Right,” Ian nodded, as if that made sense.

“Has been, since the 80s.”

“Mh-hm.”

“The volume knob is also broken, so Van Damn decides when it plays and when it doesn’t.”

“So your car is possessed by Pat Benatar?”

“Basically.”

“Great. Why don’t you get it fixed, or fix it yourself?”

“Eh, it’s on the list.” The valet handed him back the key and the detached door handle with a look of thinly veiled disdain.

“How long’s the list?” Ian was still standing on the brick pavers as Mickey clambered up into the driver’s seat, then reached over to unlock the passenger side door for him.

“Longer than you got time for, Gallagher.”

\---

Ian was at lunch with Jerome the next day, recounting the highlights of Mickey’s performance. They sat at a long wooden counter, facing out through a glass window to the street, each with a drink in front of him (beer for Jerome, soda for Ian.)

“And then he goes, ‘It’s not Buddha, it’s Heralcitus!’”

“Who’s that, then?” Jerome asked.

“I have no idea, honestly. The point is, he was amazing. I mean, I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. He was prepared, he was quick witted, he looked real good, too.”

“You know,” Jerome began, trying to point out the obvious. “For a man who’s been on a thousand dates, you got zero game.”

Ian frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Maybe it’s different for gay men, I wouldn’t know about all that. But I’m talking about Mickey. The way you talk about him…” Jerome let the words trail off, hoping Ian would get the hint.

“Mickey- no. Nope. Mickey… that’s my lawyer. He’s… no way. He’s off the table.” He wrinkled his nose, like their soda was suddenly fish guts.

“Last I checked, Mickey was a guy first. A smart, beautiful, compassionate man.”

“Beautiful Jerome? What are you saying?”

“Hey, I got eyes, don’t I? More importantly, doesn’t Mickey. Those baby blues... If I was just a little lower on the Kinsey scale, things might be different…”

Ian held up his hands in mock protest. “Please, please stop talking.”

“My point remains. Mickey is your type, exactly, from what I can tell. Why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“I don’t know… that’s- it’s just-” He sighed and took a sip of the soda in front of him.

“What’s holding you back, Gallagher? You just went on a thousand dates, and you sound like you’re afraid to go on one more!”

“Yeah, but Mickey’s not like those other guys.” Ian shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing the conversation would end, or move on, or erase itself from his memory. No such luck. 

“Exactly. It’s scary, isn’t it? You been playin’ in the shallow end where it’s safe. That ain’t where you’re gonna find love. Not the real thing. To find that, you gotta dive deep.”

That almost made sense, except… “What if I sink?”

Jerome’s smile was almost smug, “What if you swim?” 

He’d need to think about this more, a lot more.

\---

Mickey had just gotten to work, was in the process of walking in the door, when a reporter came up, thrusting a microphone into his face. “Mickey Milkovich? How do you plan to take on Love, Guaranteed? Do you really believe Ian Gallagher has a case?”

He blinked, mentally a step behind the smarmy-looking reporter. The best defense was a good offense. “How the fuck did you hear about that?”

“Slow news week. I was trolling courthouse filings when I saw- jackpot! Army veteran suing a dating site, now that’s what my editor calls a real human interest piece.”

Mickey cleared his throat, leaned real close to the mike and growled, “No fuckin’ comment.”

“Mr. Milkovich, if I could just get a moment-” the reporter’s voice was cut off as the door swung shut behind Mickey, ushering him into the lobby cum receptionist’s desk cum paralegal’s office. Mandy was sitting at her desk, flipping through a glossy gossip magazine.

“A fuckin’ reporter just accosted me about Ian’s case!”

“I know, ain’t it cool,” Iggy asked, with his usual dopey grin. 

Mandy put the magazine down. “What’d you say?” 

“No comment, obviously. Actually,” he held up his coffee close to his mouth like the mike and repeated his tone from the sidewalk, “No fuckin’ comment!”

Mandy made a slow clapping motion that Iggy picked up until Mickey gave them each the finger. 

“Listen, we need to focus on getting ready for the trial, not playing this case out in the press.”

“That’s no fun, that’s work and the press is like, tv and shit.”

“Work isn’t supposed to be fun, Ig.”

“Sure it is,” Mandy quipped. “If you’re a fuckin’ robot who does everything Mickey says.”

“Just stop, ok?”

“Whatever.” She pulled out a nail file and began to mess with her nails. “Lloyd Lishman called.”

“No shit?”  _ Was this another settlement offer? _

Mandy handed him a pink post-it note.

“We already have a court date.” Not an offer then. More like a throwing down of the gauntlet. “This is only six weeks away!” 

_ Could they do this? _

“Alright, we can do this,” he lied to his siblings. “We gotta all buckle down, nights and weekends.”

“Do we get overtime for those nights and weekends?”

“Do you get- no, asshole. If we win this case, we get more cases, and you keep your job, that good enough for you?”

Mandy gave a casual shrug as Mickey kicked open his office door.

Then he turned back. “Maybe light that candle you did when Iggy got his STI test results?”

She sat up, suddenly interested. “Anything for the team.”

“That shit really worked, I only had trich last time,” Iggy reminded the air where Mickey had been standing. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ya know, you don’t smell like a lawyer.

The three siblings worked until late in the evening, pouring over every detail of the case, making sure they had everything they needed. They drank gallons of coffee, cycling through smoke breaks at the back step, and consuming way too much takeout. 

Around 1 am, Mandy was still typing furiously as her laptop, while Iggy had his head thrown back, snoring loudly. The snoring was obnoxious, so of course, Mandy threw a highlighter at him. He woke with a jolt, then saw what had happened and tossed a roll of tape back at her. The office-supply war continued until Mickey emerged from his office, looking to refill his coffee mug, and served them each a dismissive scowl.

When the morning came, Iggy and Mandy were clearly worse for the wear, but Mickey seemed somehow refreshed. Maybe he’d stolen a nap in his office? Mandy stared at him, studying his crisp shirt and leather case.

“Where you going, boss man?”

“Love, Guaranteed is definitely gonna be going after Ian’s character, and we can’t afford any surprises there. So I did a little Google stalking.”

Iggy just gaped, but Mandy could practically smell a scandal. “Did you find dirt on him? Not that I want you to, but let’s be honest, I love dirt.”

“Yeah,” Mickey pulled out his phone. “ Look, Ian’s not on social media anymore, but I did find some crumbs. His name’s Caleb Jones.”

Mandy peered at the little picture and gasped dramatically. “He wasn’t one of the thousand dates.”

“Nope,” Mickey affirmed. “And we’ve gotta cover our bases, so I’m gonna meet up with him today.”

Iggy and Mandy shared a worried look.

“Dude, he’s hot. I don’t even like dudes, and I can see that!” Iggy said.

Mickey considered the picture, as if looking at Caleb for the first time. “Yeah, I guess so. You know, if you’re into the whole male fitness model/firefighter thing.”

“Ever gay dude is.”

“Yup,” Mandy agreed. “Most people are, like in general.”

“Ok, morons, gimme the phone back.” Mickey grabbed it from Mandy’s hands, and pushed the front door open, leaving for the morning.

\---

Caleb lived in a bougie suburb on the edge of Cook County. The further Mickey drove from the city, the larger the houses and the lawns grew. Checking the address, he finally pulled into a huge tan-shingled mansion, surrounded by neatly landscaped shrubs and trees. There was simply no other word for it: the house had cupolas upon cupolas, a few columns, and a stone paved driveway that Van Damn looked sorely out of place next to the silver G-Wagon.

Mickey psyched himself up as he walked to the front door.  _ Research. Background. The case. _

He rang the bell, sending off a cascade of bells in some snippet of a piece of classical music. In just a moment, the door swung open, and Mickey was faced with a god. Well, a human who looked like a god. Muscles for days, clear skin, neat haircut, a simple tank top and shorts. Even his feet looked smooth.  _ Were his toenails painted with something shiny? _

“Holy crap.”

The god-like human looked him up and down, and gave a small smile. “Hi, you must be Mickey. I’m Caleb. C’mon in.”

Mickey squeezed himself past the guy, noting his impressive musculature and expensive cologne. 

Caleb led them to the back deck, above a shimmering pool. A woman who had to be some type of employee or servant poured each of them a cup of tea in a tiny, delicate, china cup. Mickey wasn’t sure whether to sip or slurp, so he just held his cup on the saucer, waiting for Caleb to start the conversation.

“Ian Gallagher. I haven’t heard that name in a minute. How is Big E?”

“Ian,” Mickey enunciated carefully, “is well. He is suing a dating website for making false claims. As I told you on the phone, I’m his attorney.”

Caleb settled a little in his white rattan chair, seeming to pose for an invisible camera. “Sounds like Ian. Always calling out a liar, fighting for justice.”

“Ah. Umm…” Mickey didn’t have a clue what that meant, so he just moved on. “Anyway. I’m looking into his dating history.” He clicked his pen, indicating his readiness to take notes. Or stab a bitch with it. Time would tell.

“I haven’t heard from Ian since the breakup. He took it hard. Very hard.”

That was probably innuendo, but Mickey wasn’t gonna touch that one. “So you didn’t keep in touch?”

“We broke up over two years ago.” Caleb sighed. “My fault, it didn’t end well. He found me with someone else, I left. Radio silence ever since.”

“Right,” Mickey clarified. “Someone else?”

“A chick. Old friend. No big deal, but Ian seemed to think it was.”

Mickey pondered, imagined finding his uber-handsome boyfriend in bed with a woman.  _ Yeah, he’d be pissed off too.  _

Then the rest of the story filtered into his brain. “But you said two years- Thank you for your time. Your relationship predates my case.”

_ Phew. Time to fuckin go. _

Caleb set down his tea cup. “Wait.”

Mickey turned, already halfway to the double doors. 

“If Ian didn’t tell you about me, how did you find me?”

_ Shit. Play it cool, Milkovich. You didn’t do anything wrong. Research. _

“Oh, just some old social media accounts.” 

“You’ve been doin some digging.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

“For the case, of course.” Mickey wanted to squirm under that perfect gaze, instead, the warm brown eyes kept him pinned in place.

“Of course,” Caleb agreed.

_ Now could he go? _

“I’ll just show myself out.” He opened the double doors with an attempt at a flourish and turned left.

“Kitchen,” Caleb called dryly.

Mickey turned right, and hurried the other way. 

\-----

Mickey was back in his office as a cold rain fell outside. He was busy making notes, checking details, and the time had escaped him. Iggy and Mandy had left for the night, and he was alone, pressing at the stress spot on the sides of his nose, trying to fend off an incipient headache. 10pm wasn’t past his bedtime, but it was later than he intended to work regularly.

His whole body ached from curling over the laptop all day, and he wanted something, someone to distract him. Only one person came to mind, so he picked up his phone and typed out a quick ‘U up?’ text to Gallagher.

The near-instant reply confused him. 

_Gallagher: 10:12 PM_ _Are you booty-calling me?_

_Milkovich: 10:13 PM_ _Nooooooo! Why? What’d I do?_

Why would Ian think he was trying … that? With him? Furthest thing from Mickey’s mind right now.

The little dots danced for a minute, before resolving into a response.

_Gallagher: 10:14 PM_ _‘U up’ is code for a booty call._

_ Oh, fuck. _

He quickly hit the contact icon and called Gallagher. It rang twice, giving Mickey a chance to wonder where Ian was, that he could text back immediately, but not pick up.

“Hello?” The voice was drowsy, but unmistakably Gallagher.

“There’s secret fuckin’ texting codes, now?”

Ian laughed lightly, and Mickey could hear his breathing change as he stood, maybe strolling around his apartment.

“You’ve been on two, almost three internet dates now. You haven’t learned the lingo yet?”

Mickey rubbed at his forehead, feeling stupid, left behind somehow. “Obviously not. I just wanted to see if you were awake to, you know, go over a couple things.” This was true, and not. He had had this weird image in his mind: Gallagher in an old, soft t-shirt, ratty sleep pants, hair going every which way, curled up a big bed. Alone, but with room. Maybe curled around a pillow, mimicking the way Ian wanted to curl around another person-

“-To go over?” Ian’s real voice interrupted Mickey’s reverie. “Wait, you’re still at work?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You are not a normal human being, Mickey Milkovich.” It didn’t  _ sound  _ like an insult, so Mickey kept his bristly, spikey response to himself.

“Fine, what about tomorrow then? You free?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Mick,” Ian explained patiently, as if to a small child.

“What’s your point?”

There was a drawn out  _ chhh  _ sound, a kind of laugh, before Ian answered. “My point is it’s Saturday. I refuse to spend it in some stuffy office.”

“Ok, so we meet somewhere else.”  _ Why was Gallagher making this so hard?  _ He just needed him to answer a few questions.

\---

They’d settled on a walk at a park near the lakeside. The weather had cooperated, giving them a last glimpse of autumn: bright sun, colorful leaves, and cool breezes.

“The one who ate paper?” Mickey’s tone was incredulous. He’d watched enough  _ My Strange Addiction _ to know it wasn’t impossible, just deeply weird.

“Yeah,” Ian agreed. “All kinds.”

“No way. I know about this shit- they always like one specific brand of printer paper, or only one color of napkins.”

“He ate it all. Napkins, toilet paper, playing cards.”

“Guess that made the date a little tough,” Mickey ventured.

“Yeah, but how do you mean?”

“Dude was probably too busy eating the menu to talk to you!”

They shared a laugh over his dumb joke, and Mickey felt warm inside. Like a sap.

“He even ate origami!”

“I don’t fuckin’ believe you, and I can’t wait to meet this fictional person and prove he doesn’t exist.”

The teasing was better, felt safer, more familiar. Like Gallagher was someone he could’ve grown up with.

“Ya know, you’re not the cheesy scam artist I had you pegged for.” He peered sideways through his lashes at Gallagher, watching his skin in the dappled autumn light through the last leaves on the trees.

“Oh, yeah?” Ian was staring at the ground in front of them as they walked, or maybe his shoes. Totally fuckin’ unaware of how he looked.

“Mm-hmm. No swindler-vibes at all.”

“Thanks. You’re not the uptight, asshole lawyer I assumed you were.”

Mickey made a grumbling noise. He was still a badass, he was!

“Happy to be wrong, though.” It was Ian’s turn to try and watch him covertly, though he wasn’t doing a very good job. Mickey could see his face turned, out of the corner of his eye. 

“Wrong? Ok, sure.”

“You wanna be known as an uptight asshole?”

“Eh, kinda, yeah. Better. Safer.”

“Uptight though?”

“That’s probably true, too. You know the first thing I do in the morning when I wake up?”

Ian’s little grin said he had a guess, so Mickey rushed the next words out. “I check my phone. Answer emails. Look at my schedule. Then I go to the office all day, come home, finish everything I didn’t get done at the office, maybe interact with my nosey fuckin’ neighbors, then get back in bed.”

That grin was back, bigger now.

“With my phone, and it all starts over again. Vicious circle.”

“Umm, not to be that asshole but… cycle.”

Mickey glanced around, confused. “What?” 

“It’s a vicious cycle, that’s the saying.”

“No way. Vicious circle.” Mickey was sure of it.

“Vicious circle? That sounds like a… like a geometry teacher’s weekend punk band.”

Mickey scowled, but Ian pushed further, using a weird-announcer voice. “Up next, the Vicious Circle!”

They both giggled. 

\---

The walk ended abruptly when the sky suddenly clouded over and began dumping bitterly cold rain on them. They made a run for it, and Mickey finally admitted they were pretty close to his place. Which is how they ended up on his ratty couch, eating takeout, shoes drying on the radiator, each wearing one of Mickey’s old shirts while their original ones were in the dryer.

They were still discussing all of Ian’s failed dates.

“How’d you find out?”

Ian sighed and put down his bowl of rice. “Uh, he told me. He said he had an imaginary friend, and he brought her everywhere. Brought her on the date.”

“Bet she had a good time, at least,” Mickey tried to joke.

“He said she did. She didn’t eat any of her food.”

“Wait, you’re tellin me this guy ordered a whole meal for his imaginary fuckin friend, made you pay for it, and didn’t eat any of it?” Mickey was scandalized.

They stood, and began to clean up boxes and containers.

“Wow, how do you have this much leftover takeout food on hand? It’s gotta be enough for… like a whole week!”

“Exactly. That way, I don’t have to think about it until I order again next weekend.”

“Nice logic, very sound.” Ian glanced around, at the blue walls and tan furniture. The few concert posters Mickey’d had framed. A few eclectic lamps and shit, stuff he’d found. “I like your place, too.”

“Thanks. It’s pretty comfortable, when I’m here. My ex, Svetlana, and her new wife and husband own the building. She’s the worst landlord on the planet, but a decent human being, now that we’re not together anymore.”

“Jesus christ, Milkovich, an ex-wife? What else, you got kids in here too?”

Mickey flushed. “Uh, she’s got a kid. We’re not- not really sure if Yev’s mine or not, so we kinda just try to all be cool.”

Ian paused. “You don’t have to tell me about it, it sounds like a lot.”

He considered. Did he really wanna spill all his guts to Ian right now, when things were going so well? 

“Eh, how about, I’ll tell you another time?”

The grin directed at him was more than enough of a reward, Mickey felt, even if he wasn’t sure if another time would ever come. Not after he told Gallagher what he’d done.

“Anyway, now because of their weird menage a’ mess, I live here on the cheap.” He passed Ian a bottle of beer, taking a drink from his own for strength. Then he laid it out. “I met with Caleb.”

Ian’s face froze, the easy smile vanished. His arm dropped, and the beer clattered as it 

“As soon as I realized your relationship predated our case, I left. Okay? But you don’t me running around digging up old wounds from old boyfriends past. Sorry, man. I was outta bounds.”

“Uh… fiance.”

“Huh?” Mickey was more than a little surprised, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.

“Yeah.” Ian took a long swallow of the beer, then set it aside, steadying himself. “Two months before our wedding, he slept with someone else. A woman, someone he’d known since they were kids. I freaked out, but I was- I thought we might move past it. But when I got home from work that day, he’d upped and moved out. No letter, no forwarding address. Turns out, he’d been seeing her for a while. So… yeah.”

Mickey felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest, like he was feeling a small sliver of what Ian must have felt at the betrayal. He reached out, covering Ian’s large hand with his tattooed fingers. The contrast of freckles and ink was striking, like Mickey’s hand was sullying Gallagher, somehow, just by touching him.

A scream echoed through the house.

“Oh, shit, Svet!”

“Your ex-wife?”

“It’s fucking complicated,” Mickey explained as he ran through the house, ducked out the front door, and let himself into the adjoining door to Svet, Vee, and Kev’s place. Ian was close at his heels.

“Svet? Lana, you ok?”

“Am fine,” came the grunted reply. Svetlana was sitting widely on the couch, patting Yev’s hair as he played on the food in front of her. “Water broke, is all.”

Kev stumbled into the living room, clearly half dressed and half awake. “We gotta get to the hospital ASAP. I have the route all mapped, where’re the keys?”

“You,” Svetlana turned her gaze on Gallagher, “must be Ian.”

“Yeah, uh, hi?”

Mickey could see Ian’s gaze darting around, from the wedding photos of the thruple, to Yev’s dark hair and blue eyes, and back to Svetlana’s hugely pregnant belly.

“Mickey talks about you all the time.” 

“Bitch, what? Please, no, I don’t.”

“Actually, bitch, yes. You do.”

“Of course she does, I’m his favorite client,” Ian put in, a tiny smile playing on his lips. 

Mickey groaned inwardly, and turned to face him. “No, that’s Jerome.”

“Jerome? Seriously? I am ten times more charming than Jerome.”

_ True _ . “But he’s got the whole grumpy old man vibe goin’ on.”

“That’s true,” Ian admitted. “Yeah, he is definitely old, if that’s your type.”

Svetlana let out another low groan of discomfort. “I am loving this banter you two but now is time to have baby, I think.”

“Oh, yeah!” “Yes!” Mickey and Ian agreed.

“Kevin! Am not having baby in car. Is only a lease!”

Vee came down the stairs, go-bag in hand, running into Kevin who ran in from the kitchen.

“I can’t find the car keys,” he said wildly, waving said keys around in his hand like nunchucks. 

“Check your left hand, honey,” Vee told him. 

After a few more minor pratfalls, Kevin, Vee, and Svetlana were packed into the car, and Mickey and Ian were left alone with Yev, Gemma, and Amy, who all stared up at the two men as if expecting them to burst into song. 

Mickey turned to Ian, body language stiff. “You can get goin’ now, if you want.”

“Or, and consider this,” Ian raised his pointer finger, “I could stick around and help out.”

“Shit, no. You have no idea what you’re signin’ up for with these heathens.”

“Milkovich, you do remember I have three younger siblings and a niece and nephew, right? These three look like a piece of cake.”

The three kids sat on the couch, Gemma and Amy hand in hand, Yev holding a toy car, all looking perfectly innocent. 

\---

An hour later, the living room looked like a toy store had exploded. The kids had pulled out every toy they owned, determined to show them off to Ian. That had devolved into a screaming fight over who Ian liked better, then crying after a beloved toy lost an arm in the conflict. 

Mickey and Ian stood in the middle of the living room, disheveled and exhausted.

“What…. happened?” Ian asked. “They looked like those Von Trapp kids and now it’s all Hunger Games.” 

Mickey didn’t respond.

“I’m scared,” Ian whispered. 

There was only one thing left to do, the nuclear option. Mickey went for it. 

“We need to open a window of negotiation about bedtime.”

The girl’s chattering to Yev didn’t stop, didn’t even decrease in pitch or frequency.

“Are you lawyering the four-year-olds?”

“I’m willing to make concessions.”

Yev stopped, and looked at Mickey. He knew what concessions meant, at least in this context.

Mickey left the room, Ian staring after him in amazement. “You’re just gonna- go? And leave me with… with them?”

In a minute, he returned, hands cold and full. “A’right. Who wants ice cream?”

The kids’ eyes had been pinned on Mickey as soon as he got back, and now they all suddenly sat, politely waiting for their share of the treats. “Me, me me!”

“Ok, ice cream comin’ up, but first everyone needs to lay down in  _ their own _ bed,” Mickey directed with a snap of his fingers, handing Ian the bowls.

Once the three kids were sitting in their respective beds, they each accepted the bowls half filled with Ben N Jerry’s. 

“Enjoy, don’t tell your moms or dad, k?”

“Ok, Uncle Mickey,” came the happy, sticky chorus.

“Voila,” Mickey waved.

“You, sir, are a genius,” Ian gushed. 

Mickey tried to brush it off. “Bribery. Oldest trick in the book.”

“That’s definitely a crime.”

They crashed down onto the couch in sync, totally exhausted from herding the kids for a few short hours.

“Yeah, maybe. But Yev ain’t gonna testify against me, and the girls’ll just hold it against me for blackmail later.”

“Does he know your his-” Ian’s words trailed off.

“His dad? Brother? Maybe his cousin? Nah, he’s too little still. Svet and I, we finally got our shit together, and someday we’ll tell him, but not yet.”

Ian didn’t reply, but Mickey could see he was dying to ask. “Just spit it out Gallagher.”

“With the deepest respect to your ex-wife, how do you  _ not  _ know if the kid’s yours or your father’s or your uncle’s? Or are you just gonna ‘tell me later’?” Ian said that last in a perfect mimicry of Mickey’s own earlier statement.

“Fuck, ok.” Mickey scrubbed a hand down his tired face, feeling the 8pm stubble on his cheeks.  _ Was he really gonna do this?  _ Guess now was as good a time as any…

“My dad, the homophobic prick, caught me with a guy. Svetlana was my punishment, or maybe we were each other’s. She used to be his favorite whore, till he caught her with my Uncle Ronny, right around this same time.”

Ian wasn’t saying anything, but Mickey could feel the warmth of his thigh pressed against him, strong and comforting.

“Short story, she was knocked up. My father forced us to get married, and then came Yev. Everything started to change for us, or it could have. Not love, or anything,” he hurried to add. “I’m 100% gay as shit, but we tried, for the kid. Then I went to prison, and she was left on her own. She hooked up with Kev and Vee, and I guess they love each other. She deserves it.”

Still silent, Ian placed a hand on Mickey’s, where he had it resting on his own knee. This time, the freckled fingers seemed to cover and protect Mickey’s own.

Mickey’s text-alert went off, saving him from whatever awkwardness was about to happen. He pulled it out, and smiled softly, showing Ian the pictures. “It’s from Kevin. ‘Baby Katya is here. Seven pounds two ounces, Moms and baby resting. Dad needs alcohol.”

“Wow, for some reason I wasn’t expecting Svetlana and Veronica to be curled up together on the bed, but it’s kinda sweet.”

“Incredible, ain’t it? I missed Yev’s birth, too caught up in my own shit. So this is kinda new to me, too.”

“Crazy how much your life can change in a minute,” Ian replied, not looking at the phone anymore.

Their eyes met, and Mickey bit his lip.  _ Was this- what was this? _

Ian tilted his head forward, just a little, opened his lips and then-

said, “I’d better go.”

_ What the fuck had just happened? _

Mickey cocked his head, but didn’t say anything, not trusting his voice.

“Yeah, I have early PT in the morning. So…”

_ It was a lie, a blatant lie.  _ The first lie Gallagher’d ever told him.

He nodded. “Special place, eh?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah. And, once we win the case, it’s gonna be even better.”

_ Right, the case, the fucking case, you asshole _ , Mickey berated himself.

“Yeah? How so?”

“Well,” Ian shrugged, “I’m donating any proceeds from the lawsuit towards a new children’s wing. Yeah, you’d be surprised how many little kids we get in there.”

No, Mickey wouldn’t. He’d needed that kind of place plenty of times growing up.

“Never told me that, man.” He’d really thought Gallagher was out there looking for a quick buck.  _ God, he was a dick. _

“You never asked.” 

_ No, he hadn’t, he’d just assumed, like always, that everyone in the world was only looking out for number one. That good people didn’t exist.  _ “Sorry for judging you. I had you all wrong.”

Gallagher brushed his apology off. “Ah, don’t be sorry. I judged you too.”

Mickey raised one eyebrow.  _ The tattoos, maybe? The van? _

_ “ _ Large mocha latte,  _ yes  _ to the whipped cream,  _ yes  _ to the chocolate drizzle? It’s like a drink for a little kid.”

“No, what it is, is  _ delicious _ . And you’re missing out.”

Both men laughed, as Gallagher stood, stretching his back and arms, loudly as he pulled on his coat. Mickey followed him to the door. 

They stood, face to face.  _ If it had been a date, which it  _ **_wasn’t_ ** _ , but if it had been, this would have been the time to kiss. Maybe invite Gallagher back to his place, show him his bedroom, show him the ben-wa balls tucked in the drawer... _

Ian interrupted his train of thought. “I had fun tonight.”

“Yeah? Me too.” It felt weird to admit. Mickey didn’t have a lot of fun these days, especially not with people he’d basically just met. Uncertainty shook him. What was he supposed to do next?

He stuck out his hand for a shake. Ian didn’t laugh, or even grin, just took Mickey’s hand in his yet again, warm and strong around Mickey’s fingers. 

“Fuck it, gimmer a hug.”

Before Mickey could formulate a response to that truly absurd suggestion, he found himself enfolded in Gallagher’s arms, head pressed to that firm chest, smelling the last hints of whatever cologne he’d put on that morning. It felt… weirdly good. 

“We can hug, Mick,” Ian asked from somewhere over his head.

“Right.” Mickey’s voice was muffled by the jacket he’d pressed his nose to, feeling Ian’s hands stroke gently across his back until they found the right stop and just  _ held  _ him. Ian turned his head, cheek obviously resting atop Mickey’s head, taking ever-so-slightly exaggerated breaths. 

“Ya know, you don’t smell like a lawyer.”

“Seriously? What do I smell like then,” Mickey challenged.

“I don’t know. You smell like you, I guess.”

They released each other then, slowly drawing apart, and Mickey felt another one of those fucking inflection points, a moment when they could, or should say something sappy. Or kiss.

Gallagher obviously felt it too, because he leaned forward and pressed his lips quickly to the very center of Mickey’s forehead. 

“Night, Mick.”

“Night Gallagher,” he managed to spit out to Ian’s back as he slipped out the door. 

_ Oh, fuck. _


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brevity, but lemme tell you- the projects I have in the works? WOW!

Mickey was late to work. Mickey was never late to work, and he was a full 90 minutes past his scheduled arrival time. Mandy was pacing around the office, a full cup of coffee in each hand. 

“He’s MIA, he’s never MIA.” She took a sip from each mug, then handed one to Iggy.

“First he took yesterday off ‘spend time with the baby,’ which definitely isn’t his this time, and now he’s late?” Iggy sipped the coffee, then frowned down at it. “What’s in this?”

“Nothing, I just used espresso instead of a k-cup. Should we put out an amber alert?”

“I wanna see his name on the five o’clock news, maybe on a milk carton. ‘Have you seen this idiot?’”

The bell over the door rang, and both Mandy and Iggy turned to look at whoever had arrived. 

Mickey rolled in, coat casually flung over one arm, collar unbuttoned. He tossed the coat on the coat rack with a little “Oop” noise and then went to make himself a cup of coffee. 

“Is he choking?” Iggy whispered.

“I think- I think he’s laughing,” Mandy hissed back.

“But why? He sounds like me after I take E. Makes me friendly as fuck. Mickey ain’t friendly.”

“Hey, Mickey.” Mandy approached him cautiously, as he stood, pouring coffee into a startlingly vivid orange mug. 

“Morning!” It had to be drugs. Mickey was never this cheerful before coffee.

“How ya feeling, bro?”

Iggy and Mandy watched as Mickey reached for the sugar dispenser, but grabbed the fish food canister instead. 

“You know,” he said, “Never better.” His siblings eyes were wide as he poured orange fish flakes into his coffee with a flourish.

Mickey lifted the mug to his mouth, about to take a sip, when Mandy stepped in. “No, no, honey, this one is fresh.” She shoved her own cup into his hands, cautiously taking the fish flake flavored coffee away.

“Thanks, Mands. Really ‘preciate that.” He smiled. Mickey actually smiled. With his whole face, eye crinkles and teeth showing and nose wrinkled and it was just- a lot, actually.

Iggy and Mandy exchanged a look. Definitely E. Mickey didn’t  _ do  _ compliments, not to his siblings.

“Well, time to get back to work,” and he jumped up and went to his office, laughing to himself as he walked, a literal spring in his step.

“I don’t smell day drinking,” Iggy noted.

“Yeah, but you can’t smell vodka,” Mandy replied, as the phone rang.

“E, either.”

“Shut up.” She picked up the phone, putting on her professional work voice. “M. Milkovich and Associates. How may I direct your call?” There was a pause as the voice on the phone said something, and then Mandy finished with, “Hold please.”

BUt they didn’t have a fancy-ass hold button, so she just clenched the phone between her chin and her shoulder, pressing the button to transfer the call to Mickey’s office.

“It’s Ned Lishman,” she told a confused Iggy. “And yeah, you can smell E, in someone’s sweat. I got a nose for it.”

In his office, Mickey had his feet up, eyes shut, thinking. 

Iggy burst in, and Mickey opened his eyes languidly. “Hey, Igs.”

“Ok, what is wrong with you today? You have that whole thing about knocking, and you don’t smell like E-”

“Man, I’m in too good a mood for drugs. Or knocking. I appreciate you thinking about it, Iggy.”

“Oh… Okay. Well, Mandy said to tell you Ned Lishman is one line one.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll talk to ol’ Ned.” Mickey swung his feet down and took another big swallow from Mandy’s coffee cup before hitting the button to accept the call.

“Mr. Lishman.”

“Mr. Milkovich. I had to let you know we’re calling in a last-minute witness to trial. Caleb Jones.”

Mickey spit out the mouthful of coffee he’d been in the process of swallowing. “How’d you find her?”

“Ah, you’re not the only one digging up dirt, Mr. Milkovich. I have a whole team of busy little bees looking into every element of Ian Gallagher’s life, romantically and otherwise. It seems you’ve been getting awfully cosy with your client.”

Mickey scowled, though he knew Lishman couldn’t see it. “Luckily, my personal life has nothing to do with this case.”

“Now I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Aside from all Mr. Gallagher’s youthful transgressions, you know teen sex workers just don’t play well in court, the Love Guarentee technically states subscribers will find love via Love, Guaranteed. It does not, however, stipulate that the dates have to be arranged on the site. Only that the subscribers find love because of it.”

There was a long pause as Lishman’s words sunk in.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought so. This is your last chance to take the settlement. Otherwise, this could end, well, badly, for your client, and for you, if you want to keep your reputation as a do-gooder intact. Falling in love with a client would lose you both the court case and your rep. Bye!”

Mickey picked up the handset and slammed it down, twice for good measure.

In love? With Gallagher? Of course not, no way. Besides, the case came first. Getting the money for all those kids who needed help. He just needed to- to think to-

No, he didn’t. Mickey knew what he needed to do.

\---

At 9pm, he was sitting at home in his kitchen, highlighter in hand, going over more details for the case, trying to revise his opening statement. His cell phone rang. The caller ID said Ian Gallagher.

Mickey looked at it for a moment, then rejected the call.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. Fuck, no. But Mickey’s mouth knew what to say, if his mind and heart did not.

The next days and nights passed much the same. 

Quiet. 

Work. 

The phone would ring, occasionally, and Mickey would reject the call.

“Hi, you reached Mickey, leave a message. BEEP.” It was the most generic and yet pointed option Mandy would allow him.

“Hey, It’s Ian- you free tonight? I just got The Fugitive DVD, was so excited I forgot I don’t own a DVD player, so if you have one, maybe we could….? Does anyone own a DVD player anymore? Ok, call me back.” 

Mickey didn’t call Ian back.He sat on the swings by the lake with Vee as the three little ran around like maniacs and Svet sedately rocked the baby back and forth in a carriage.

“Hon, you have to talk to him,” She offered gently.

“And say what? That I might have sunk our fuckin’ case by signing up for the ridiclious site?”

“It’s only an issue if Ian finds love. Right? So just… pump the brakes when you’re together.”

Mickey hung his head in shame. “That’s the whole fuckin’ problem. I don’t wanna pump the brakes, Vee. I like the guy. I’ve never not wanted to pump the brakes more.”

“That’s wonderful, honey!” Vee’s smile was warm and genuine in the cold autumnal air.

“No, It’s not!” Mickey protested. She didn’t get it. “If Love, Guaranteed finds out that Ian is … falling for me, they will use it against us in court. We will lose this case. He will not be able to donate any of the money to the children’s center and...”

Mickey’s phone was ringing, again. Vee looked at it. Mickey looked at it. They both knew who was calling.

“You need to talk to him. Remember, I love you like my own mentally defective brother,” Vee called as she wandered over to corral her little ones.

Mickey gave a manly sniffle and pressed Accept. 

“Hello?”

“Mickey? Where you been? I left like, five, message for you.”  _ Seven actually. _

“I’ve been busy, just preparing for the trial.”

“Yeah, ok.” Ian didn’t sound deterred. Not enough at least. “You want some help?”

“Nope, I got this.” Mickey made his voice firm, commanding. The way he’d learned- never mind.

“Right.” Ian tried again. “How does a pickup full of pad thai sound tonight? You can add the leftovers to your collection.”

_ Fuck, Thai food sounded amazing right now, _ but Mickey stayed firm. “All good over here, thanks.”

Ian had caught onto Mickey’s chill, and he was never one to avoid a conversation. “You ok? You seem off.” 

Mickey bit his lip and scrubbed his gloved hand across his face, hating himself for being a lawyer and a liar. “Just busy. You know, we’re only two weeks out from our country date.” Mickey had nearly said from ‘our date’ and now his mouth knew the shapes of those words and he truly didn’t think he could even unlearn them, so he was fucked.

“Ok, um,” Ian’s voice brought him back. “Let me know when you come up for air then.”

That could have been enough. It was the perfect statement, if you’re seeing someone new and they’re suddenly incredibly busy. But Mickey couldn’t leave the window open, not without diving thought it himself at the first weak moment.

“Ian, I don’t think we should see each other right now.” He could swear he could hear his own feeble heart breaking with the sticks the kids were stomping behind him. “I need to focus on the case, it’s my priority.”

“Uhm…” Ian seemed to be thinking, considering. “Is that what you want?”

_ No. Fuck, no. But Mickey’s mouth knew what to say, if his mind and heart did not. _

“We can’t always do what we want. Sometimes, we need to do what’s right.”

Ian could hear right through him, always had. “Why are you doing this?”

Mickey took a deep breath, and looked out over the water. There were big boats and little boats out there. Someday, he’d be with someone, and they’d go away on a boat, and be happy. But to get there, he had to win this case. “You wanna in, don’t you, Ian? That’s what this whole case is about. It’s why you fuckin’ hired me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I hired you because-”

Mickey cut him off. “-Then let me do what I know is right for both of us, ok?” 

There was a pause, and Mickey thought he heard a gulp, pressing back words and sounds and feelings, but all Ian let out was, “Cool. See you in court.”

Mickey hung up, and blamed the cold wind for the dampness in his eyes.

Across town, Ian turned to Jerome, sitting and waiting at the bar. “Looks like I sunk.”


	17. Chapter 17

Mickey walked through the park, trying to give himself time to think things through, adapt to this new, professional reality. His coat was buttoned up tight but the chilly autumn air still seeped in. But it was the same part he’d walked through with Ian, and the memories kept hitting him: That’s where they bought junk food, that’s where they sat and told stuipd jokes, and everywhere, every step, was where he was afraid he’d fallen in l---

**No** . Fuck that. He didn’t need love, Mickey knew exactly what he needed to do.

He spent time with Svet and Kev and Vee, holding the baby while they took turns eating, napping, and showering alternately. He did not think back to how every atom of oxygen in his veins was screaming to call Gallagher and tell him the ridiculous name they’d picked out for the baby girl: Lola.

Mickey had tried to explain she’d be called a prostitute her whole life, but with Svetlana’s eyebrows and Kevin’s actual frown, he backed down. Vee sighed, and patted his shoulder. 

Between work and the baby, Mickey kept himself busy. In a rare moment of downtime, he drank coffee and thought about the case, or the baby. How he really should be providing more than the nominal rent he paid towards Yev, whether he was his or not. About parenting, and fatherhood. He thought maybe he did want that, the whole thing, until he’d catch a glimpse of Kevin leaving the house at 4 am to buy more diapers, drool covering his coat. 

His phone didn’t ring. He’d asked Gallagher not to call, and so he hadn’t.  _ Asshole _ .

\---

The first morning of the case was foggy, and the court’s steps were cluttered with reporters, all trying to get a clear shot and intro segment filmed. Mickey stood at the base of the steps, just so he could hear their cliche-ridden scripts. He held one huge coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other. There wasn’t actually much in his briefcase beyond his laptop, but it made him look ‘executive,’ according to Mandy, so he carried it.

A chipper fe male reporter was facing her cameraman: “Can a dating site guarantee love? We’re about to find out!”

_ No, asshole _ , Mickey thought viciously. We’re about to find out if my case has enough grounds to get through the door basically. 

Then, all at once, the reporters seemed to notice someone.  _ Fuck _ .

“There she is! Ms. Taylor!”

Tamara Taylor looked like she had just stepped out of a runway magazine print cover, with a long neutral coat and perfect waves in her hair. She brought her perfectly manicured up together in a sign of prayer, murmuring “Blessing. Check out my lifestyle blog. Blessings.”

She looked rich, and she looked confident and Mickey wanted to puke. With that delightful expression on his face, Ian Gallagher chose that moment to walk up and stand next to him. The appraising glance he offered said Mickey’s facial expression didn’t detract from his charms. Mickey liked Gallagher looking at him that way but not right the fuck now! Time to go on the offensive.

He stuck out his FUCK hand for a shake. “Is that a new suit? Looks good, firecrotch.” The nickname slid out automatically, and Mickey wanted to smack himself, but Ian just shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with their new distance. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Right. The  _ show _ . Everything that was real, these idiots would never see, Mickey reminded himself. 

Finally noticing them, most of the reporters turned from Tamara Taylor to Mickey and Ian. “Mr. Evans, Mr. Mil- the man’s voice trailed off, unsure how to pronounce Mickey’s name. “A moment of your time, please, sirs.”

The reporters pulled back, making a clear double-file aisle up the steps for Mickey and Ian to walk up, side by side. Mickey could tell Ian was slowing his steps, those stupid, long legs could have taken these three at a time and been fine.

“Mr. Gallagher, how many dates have you been on,” a cutesy blond reporter asking, shaving a microphone near Ian’s mouth. 

“Can I get a statement from your lawyer, Ian,” another, older, male reporter tried, but Ian just put one hand behind Mickey’s back and ushered them both up the steps to the courthouse.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why do you keep hitting me?”   
> “Because you like it.”

“What price would you pay, to find love?” Mickey’s voice echoed through the packed courtroom.

Ian sat beside him at the table, head bowed.

“Almost anything, right? Well, for 29.95 which includes use of their website and app, LG guarantees that you will find love. All you have to do is go on a thousand dates.”

The jurors shuffled in their seats, and the crowd laughed. Right on cue. 

Mickey kept his face open, and his body language restrained. Just another guy, a regular guy who goes on dates and has bad luck, just like everyone else in the world. He turned, ready to walk back across the courtroom, and Ian was looking everywhere else, avoiding his eyes. Fair enough. They both had a job to do.

“That’s right, one thousand  _ different  _ dates. I went on two and a half Love Guaranteed dates, and well, that was quite enough for me, thank you.”  _ Shudder and laughter. _

Winning, bashful grin, in the ensuing pause, Mandy had told him. He tried to make his face look regretful and hopeful, all at the same time. Iggy swore he just looked constipated. 

“My client, Ian Gallagher, followed all the rules. He went on 1000 dates. But Love Guaranteed did not deliver on their promise. Ian Gallagher did not find love. Over the course of this trial, the evidence will prove that Love Guaranteed cared far more about profits than they did the well-being of their subscribers. Ian Gallagher asks that you hold Love Guaranteed responsible for their wrongful actions. Thank you.”

Mickey turned and walked to his table, where Ian was waiting. He didn’t hurry, wasn’t afraid of being seen, but he didn’t dawdle, try and prolong anything. He wanted to see this through the right way.

“Mr. Lishman, your turn,” The judge advised. 

Lishman’s face was wrong for this type of case, Mickey decided, watching him intently. It was like he’d had too much botox to address those forehead wrinkles, and now he couldn’t move or gesticulate with the top half of his face. Considering Mickey’s favorite gestures came from his eyebrows, it was a big loss, in his opinion.

“The defendant stands by Love Guaranteed’s brand messaging. Love is guaranteed for those truly looking for it.”

Mickey had to suppress a yawn, not only was Lishman’s face a motionless mask, his gestures made him look like a poorly-piloted puppet.

“Now during this trial, the defence will establish that Ian Gallagher had zero intention of finding love.”

He could feel Ian bristling beside him, wanted to reach out a hand, touch him, calm him somehow. He had learned how earnestly Ian was looking for love- so what the fuck did it matter if he went at it with a spreadsheet and a game plan?

“This lawsuit,” Lishman droned on, “isn’t about trade practices, or false advertising. No. It’s a bargain basement gotcha lawsuit all about the money.”

The jury was following, as Lishman brought up and rubbed his fingers together.

“Now the evidence will show Ian Gallagher, having previously been burned by love, had no intention of finding love again.”

Shit. That sounded good- if you didn’t know Ian. If Mickey hadn’t gotten to know Ian, seen his wide-fuckin open big-ass heart just looking for the right person. 

“Sure, Mr. Gallagher may have been on a thousand dates-”

-and I have records of each and every one, Mickey mentally rebuked.

“-But the evidence will show that he was just ticking boxes in pursuit of a payday.”

Ian was shaking his head, but Mickey maintained firm attention on Lishman and the judge. 

“So at the conclusion of this trial, the good people of the jury of Chicago will find for Love Guaranteed and dismiss all charges.” His final puppetry movement was to wave towards Tamara Taylor, sitting prettily at his desk, giving the jury her own winning smile when called on, blowing kisses and making weird praying hands. 

“Thank you,” Lishman ended, lamely upstaged by his own client’s antics from the table.

On his return to his table, Lishman also have the judge a finger-gun and whispered thanks.

Shit, did Lishman have something on this judge? Was the case lost before it had even begun? Mickey got a hold of himself. Judges and attorneys knew each other, it would be weird if they didn’t. Showing that relationship off was probably less to do with knowing each other more to do with intimidating Mickey and Ian. Fat fuckin’ chance.

\---

The first expert Mickey called was a doctor, all bald with thick glasses and a gray suit. Looked like a reliable dude.

“Doctor, for the record, what is your field of expertise?”

“Well, I have a PhD in Psychology, and I teach human behavior and the sciences at UC. My speciality is attachments and relationships.”

He’d been one of Iggy’s finds, up late at night trawling the colleges and universities faculty listings for anyone who might have relevance to the case./

“Primarily, the science of love.”

Mickey suppressed his shudder, keeping his court-smile firmly pasted in place.  _ Time to set the stage _ . “And in your professional opinion, are there any known ways to guarantee love?”

“All the conclusions agree that there is no way to predict love, much less guarantee it.” 

Ian had sat up straight during the doctor’s explanation, paying close attention, but Lishman was sunk in his chair, fiddling with a pen, while Tamara Taylor tried to keep his attention on the expert at hand. EIther Lishman was high as shit, or he had a good plan up his sleeve to refute this guy.

“Why didn’t you object?” She smacked, and then hissed at Lishman, to the clear hearing of the entire court.

“The doctor’s an expert witness, there’s nothing to object to.”

She smacked his arm again, and sighed.

Mickey rolled his eyes. Lishman clearly didn’t have his client under control, she barely knew anything beyond fuckin’ Perry Mason. At least Ian was keeping it together so far.

“Why do you keep hitting me?” Lishman asked, more curious than offended.

“Because you like it,” Tamara retorted. 

The awkward silence between them left a lot of things both clearer and very unclear in Mickey’s mind. He tried to wipe away the idea of them….  _ together  _ and focus on his face.

“No, I don’t,” came the unconvincing and deeply delayed answer.

_ Fuckin’ weirdos. _


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey calls witnesses!

Mickey had called his first witness: needed-a-date-to-his-sister’s-wedding Guy.

“And how’d the date go?”

“Ian asked all about me. First time that’s ever happened on an Internet date. Am I right, folks?” The guy gave a conspiratorial wink to the jury that felt like it would do more harm than good, but Mickey restrained his urge to smack the guy when a few members giggled in return. And the bailiff. 

_ Why hadn’t Ian liked this guy, again? _ He seemed… well, superficially charming, at the very least. Free vacation had to have been tempting. 

Next, Mickey called the guy who brought his parents on the date. And whose father seemed more into Gallagher than he was. Time to proactively address some of the defence’s case.

“Did you ever feel like Ian was just going through the motions on your date?”

From the corner of his eye, Mickey could see the mom and dad making gestures to his witness.  _ Fuck, that wouldn’t look good. _

The guy hesitated, and then answered, “Uh, no. He was really nice.”

That was tepid, at best. Not what Mickey had been hoping for.

He excused the witness, with a curt word of thanks.

Cat-Guy was next, and he wore a sweater embroidered with tiny felines, cause of course he did.

“At the end of the date, how’d it go?”

“Ian insisted on paying the bill, and walked me to my car, shook my hand goodnight. Perfect gentleman.”

That sounded creepily like Mickey’s experience with Ian, and he didn’t like the idea of being just another of Gallagher’s conquests. Made him feel cheap, tawdry, somehow.

His dismissal of Cat-Guy was civil, but Mickey’s tone was decidedly clipped. “Thank you for your time today.”

_ Fucker, did Mickey really get the same treatment as Cat-Guy?  _ He’d thought they- no, never mind. Focus on the case.

“Defendant’s witness,” he told Lishman, who grinned.

“Come on,” He’d barely even stood before he started casting doubts. “You expect us to believe Mr. Out for a Quick Buck Gallagher didn’t intentionally throw the date?”

Throw the date? Like ruin it on purpose?

Cat-Guy seemed less thrown than Mickey was. “No, like I said. He was a perfect gentleman. The kind of guy I’ve been looking for.”

“Uh-huh,” Lishman agreed. “Then why didn’t you two go out again? If he was so perfect?”

“It’s internet dating. Click and move on, that’s just how it goes.”

“No. How it goes it Ian Gallagher never had any intention of finding love and he manufactured-”

“Your honor,” Mickey began to object, but Cat-Guy was still unconcerned.

“Ian and I went on one date- who can say what was in his heart that day? It’s just an app, I didn’t really expect otherwise. Although, if he’s still interested,” Cat-Guy looked directly at Ian, “He can still call. He’s got my email.”

“Very nice, thank-” Lishman was trying to move on, but Cat-Guy still wasn’t finished. Mickey was surprised, and impressed. 

“I hope he does find love one day. He deserves it. We all do.” The guy’s heart-eyes were a bit much, and in the gallery, Mickey could see Mandy rolling her eyes. No way Ian was calling this guy again. He seemed uncomfortable under the longing gaze, behind the wooden table on Mickey’s side of the court.

Tamara Taylor rubbed her forehead, as if a migraine was coming on. Mickey knew the feeling, but tried to keep his face impartial.

Lishman groaned and dismissed the witness. “No further questions.”

The court was given recessed for the day soon after that, and Mickey sat at his table, scribbling notes. It was really a grocery list, but no one but Ian could see it, so he looked super diligent, which was the whole point.

“BBQ Pringles? What are you, twelve?” Gallagher was peering at the list with a wrinkle between his eyes.

“Shut up, they taste good. Keep your eyes to yourself,” Mickey replied in a low tone.

“Hey losers, it’s goin’ ok so far, right?” Mandy had wandered over, and engaged Ian in a discussion, while Mickey surveyed the court. Tamara was having a heated conversation with Lishman, and not watching her volume in the least, which meant Mickey could hear every word.

“He’s coming off like a saint in there, what’s your plan, Ned?”

“Don’t worry, hun,” Lishman reached out to pat her shoulder, but Tamra jerked away.

“Don’t touch me! And don’t call me ‘hun.’ I’m still your boss.”

“Okay, geez. Someone’s moody today.” Lishman tried to laugh it off, but it looked like he had gas pains. Mickey stopped listening, instead focused on Mandy and Ian’s plan to spend time together over the upcoming weekend. He wasn’t jealous, obviously. Just concerned for his client. Obviously.

He was so focused on Mandy and Ian, that he totally missed Tamara and Lishman staring at them, matching self-satisfied smirks on each face.

  
  
  


Outside, the press hordes were still circling. 

“Look, here they come!”

Tamara Taylor had pasted on a fake smile and was giving a pageant-queen wave, while Lishman wasn’t trying very hard to escort her away from the reporters.

“Ms. Taylor, can I get a statement for Rise and Shine Chicago,” a reporter in a trench coat asked, holding out an oversized microphone as a camera guy hovered nearby.

“Certainly,” Tamara replied smugly. “It’s a silly, silly lawsuit. We’re still the best dating app to join Check out my lifestyle blog for today’s tips on overcoming adversity through the use of organic crystals! And remember, no gluten, no dairy, no wheat…” She droned on, happy to be in the spotlight with the free publicity as Mickey and Iggy descended the steps. Mandy was still inside the courthouse with Ian, working on their friend-date.

“Kicking ass and taking names, looking tough, bro,” Iggy assured him. 

“I dunno, man.” Mickey stopped, halfway down the steps.

Mandy and Ian finally emerged, and he watched them walk down together, not giving him a second glance. That was  _ his  _ fuckin’ sister, it wasn’t right for Gallagher to steal the faithless bitch!

“I just can’t let Lishman ruin Gallagher’s whole reputation over some dating bullshit.”

Iggy looked at him, wide-eyed. “I know you wanna win, but…. Really?”

“Yeah.” Mickey paused, thinking. “Hold on.”

  
  
“Hold on?” Iggy repeated. “To what?”

“Hey, Gallagher!” Mickey hurried down the steps, catching Ian at the bottom, below the herd of reporters.

The red-head stopped and turned to face Mickey, gaze neutral.

“Listen, I, uh- I have an idea. It’s a little out there, but…. I wanna call Caleb to the stand tomorrow.”

“The fuck? Why, Mick?” Ian’s face was finally showing some emotion, but it was all confusion.

“He’s being called either way,” Mickey explained. “It’s better we manage his testimony than just react to whatever Lishman gets him to say.”

Ian thought about it, and then nodded slowly. “So the best defence is a good offence.”

“Right.” Thank fuck Gallagher understood where Mickey was going. “I don’t actually have any idea what Caleb’s gonna say, but it will show the court that we’re not taking this lying down.”

Gallagher raised an eyebrow, and Mickey flushed. “Not like  _ that _ . You’re an honorable guy, and that’s gonna come through.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

They stared at each other as the rest of the crowd began to depart. Ian took a deep breath, then began, “Mickey-” He stopped.

Tamara Taylor swept past them, escorted by Lishman. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ian finished lamely, then turned and walked away, leaving Mickey alone. Which was fine. He was used to it; he didn’t feel like he’d lost anything, how could he lose something he’d never had?


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey crossed his fingers, under the slightly too-long sleeves of his jacket. And all his toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the v. short chapter this week. We really are close to the end.

Mickey let himself into the van, sniffing deeply. He had a cold coming on, or some shit. He wasn’t on the verge of fucking tears over Ian Fucking Gallagher being cold to him. Jesus, he needed to cut this pussy bullshit out before he lost the whole case. 

He turned the key in the ignition, and Pat Benetar’s voice boomed around him. The song’s volume was just loud enough to cover his pathetic sobs, punctuated by the occasional beating of his fists on the steering wheel as he navigated the now rainy streets of the city. 

  
  


“Before calling Ian Gallagher to the stand,” Mickey proclaimed to the judge and jury, but mostly to Tamara and Ned, “the plaintiff would like to call Mr. Caleb Jones.”

Lishman was out of his seat like a shot. “Objection! Your honor, that’s  _ my  _ witness.”

The judge placated him a little, patting the air in a ‘calm down’ gesture. “All right, Counsel. Both of you, come to the bench please.”

Mickey didn’t give Ian a single glance back as he stepped up to the imposing judges stand next to Lishman.

“You can’t do this,” Ned hissed. “Caleb Jones is a witness for the defence.”

“And you’ll have plenty of time to cross examine him,” Mickey replied coolly. 

“He’s trying to steal my witness,” Ned beseeched the judge, who was having none of it.

“All right, listen up. If Mr. Milkovich somehow thinks the defence’s witness will help his case, then he has the right to call whomever he wants. And as he pointed out, Mr. Lishman, you will have your chance during cross.”

Mickey crossed his fingers, under the slightly too-long sleeves of his jacket. And all his toes.

“So yes,” the judge continued, “I’m going to allow it. Back you go,” and shooed both lawyers back to their respectives tables.

“This isn’t fair, “ Ned whispered at the judge as a parting shot.

Bad move, Ned. Mickey knew more than anyone about not wanting to piss the judge off. “Thank you, your Honor,” he said, loud and clear for the whole court to hear, then turned to court as a whole.

“The plaintiff calls Mr. Caleb Jones to the stand.”

The doors to the courtroom swung open, and Caleb strode in. His skin glistened, and  [ his suit  ](https://wikinetworth.com/uploads/Jeff%20Pierre%20\(FILEminimizer\)\(1\).jpg) was an eggplant material that fit like a glove. His teeth gleamed and the whole courtroom was silent as he walked down the aisle like a runway. His face was blank, no smile to Ian or Tamara, no frown or grimace that said he was unhappy to be there. Just... blank.

After the swearing in process, he would be all Mickey’s to question.


End file.
